


Falling Into Heaven, Falling Into Hell

by oneiriad



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 87,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of CotBP, James manages to fall over the cliff with Jack. Jack, being the industrious fellow we all know and love, promptly manages to take him hostage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How the Mighty Have Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fanfic I ever posted. Sadly, it is now well over three years since last I added to this, and I should probably warn anybody going in, that this story is likely to remain a WIP. I think I've lost the voice of it somewhere.

“I want you to know that I was rooting for you, mate. Know that.” And Sparrow looks me in the eyes for one long moment before taking a few dancing steps, then stopping, suddenly, more suddenly than when he stopped in front of me, and speaks a short and preposterous greeting to Elizabeth. A few more steps, another stop and a couple of words to young Mr. Turner – Mr. Turner, who has just stolen Elizabeth from me. It hurts to have lost her, and to have lost her to – of all people – a common blacksmith with a pirate for a friend hurts even more. Is that hurt the reason I follow said pirate so closely, sword in my hand, as he dance-walks towards the edge? Much to closely, as it turns out.

Right on the edge he whirls around, gold teeth showing in a huge grin, eyes a-gleaming, and begins that ridiculous little trademark speech of his. As though anyone would want to remember this day (although I probably will – not because of Sparrow, but because of Elizabeth). But then he suddenly gives me ample cause...

Halfway through Sparrow’s speech I suddenly feel a foot tripping mine and a hand grasping my right one, and then I am falling and pretty confused as to how that came to be, my sword no longer in my hand. Below me the brightly shining Caribbean sea is rising up to bid me welcome, above me I can hear the scrambling of marines only now beginning to react to this unexpected turn of events, and, as I hit the water and the air is knocked out of my lungs, I hear a voice – Gillette’s? – high, high above me, shouting: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! You’ll hit the Commodore!”

I push my head up over the surface of the water, not quite grateful enough that I have avoided hitting one of the many rocks at the foot of the cliff, only to find myself face to face with one Jack Sparrow, smiling like the madman he is and with MY sword in his right hand. I don’t understand what he is smiling at. What does he think this will accomplish? That is, apart from my complete and utter humiliation – I can see my hat and wig floating a few feet away. But then the voices from above ring out again, this time in a mixture of surprise and alarm: “Sails ho!” I turn, slowly, somehow knowing even before I can see them that those sails will be black as a pirate’s soul. And then I feel the tip of my sword at the nape of my neck, and I hear Sparrow’s voice, somehow devoid of its usual slur: “Swim.”

Perhaps being given an order by a scallywag who has just pulled me out over a cliffside is the final straw – I don’t know. I just know that I simply refuse to obey Sparrow. I try to draw my pistol, though it can hardly be of much use to me now – the powder must have gotten wet – but perhaps I can use it like some sort of club? But Sparrow must have guessed my intent, and suddenly he is very close, and we are wrestling in the water. I try to grab the sword – MY sword – but Sparrow is far more agile than me, and I suspect him of having had to fight in water before, while it is a new experience for me. Somehow he manages not only to avoid my grasping hand, but also to knock the pistol that I had finally managed to draw out of my hand. It sinks to the bottom of the sea, lost to me, but even disarmed I refuse to surrender. Dragged down by a waterlogged uniform I try to struggle, until I feel a burst of pain from my groin, where something – Sparrow’s knee? his fist? – hits me. The pain wrests a cry from my lips and I splutter, desperately trying to avoid swallowing half the Caribbean sea, now above me and all around me, blinding me, trying to force its way into my lungs – and I trash, desperately trying to resurface, but to no avail. Then suddenly hands are grasping me, pulling at my coat, heavy with water and brocade. It slips from me at the same time as I feel a sharp pain from my hand and cry out, spluttering yet again, but this time there is air trying to pass my lips and I gratefully fill my lungs with it, whilst blinking to clear my eyes of the blinding salt water. And with that accomplished, what is the first thing I see? The tip of my sword hovering right in front of my face. Again I hear Sparrow’s voice – “Swim, Commodore” – and this time I obey.

They throw a rope down from the deck of The Black Pearl as we draw near, and, once again obeying Sparrow, I grab hold. He follows suit and then, suddenly, we are pulled up, out of the sea and through the air, only to land on the deck of the most notorious pirate vessel in the Spanish Main. I scramble backwards, away from Sparrow, then freeze when – of all things – a midget pirate points his pistol at me.

On the deck of the Pearl there is a hushed silence, and everybody’s attention, including mine, is on Jack Sparrow – presently sitting on the deck with my sword still in his right hand, looking vaguely suspiciously up at a bewhiskered pirate who now steps forward. He looks somewhat familiar to me, this pirate, though I am not exactly sure were I might have seen him before. And now he is helping Sparrow to his feet and there are smiles and greetings. An elderly sailor with a parrot on his shoulder gives Sparrow a hat, and then a black woman steps away from the helm to drape a solid coat around his shoulders and inform him that the ship is his. A long moment of silence follows, as Sparrow steps forth to just – touch – the helm, seemingly not noticing that all eyes are on him – except, that is, the midget’s, whose eyes and pistol never leave me.

Finally Sparrow seems to shake off his – sentimental? – mood and starts shouting orders to the other pirates, who scramble to obey. And then I find myself hauled to my feet by the woman, who is apparently a lot stronger than any woman has any right to be. “And what of this one, Captain? Shall I shoot him now and throw his carcass to the sharks?” she shouts, holding her pistol under my chin. I feel tiny beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Is this, then, how Commodore James L. Norrington, the scourge of pirates, dies?

But apparently this day is to be full of surprises, for Sparrow actually leaves the helm to step over to us, his hands moving in front of him. “No, no, no, no. No shooting the Commodore. No hanging the Commodore. No keelhauling the Commodore. In fact, no killing the Commodore whatsoever, savvy?”, and I cannot keep the surprise away from my face as he drives that point home with a stab of his finger. “But Captain, this bastard tried to hang you!” and I am sure that it is disappointment I hear in her voice, as well as something very similar to outrage.

“Aye, that he did, but as you see, he failed to finish the job. And now, Anamaria my dear, if you would care to look over at the fort, you would notice that nobody is firing all those little cannons at us, even though we are well within range. Now, I wonder how that can be,” and he pretends to ponder the question, twirling a chin-braid between two fingers. “Might it be, you think, because we have their precious Commodore aboard, and they don’t want to risk us killing him? Now, what do you think would happen if they saw you shooting him through all those little spy-glasses of theirs, eh?” Her sole answer is silence. “So, no killing the Commodore, savvy?” and he waits for her to nod before whirling around and starting to walk back to the helm.

“Well, what am I supposed to do with him, then?” she yells after him, loud enough to leave a ringing in my ears. Sparrow does not even stop, let alone turn around, just makes a dismissive gesture as he replies: “Put him in the brig. I’ll deal with him later.” And then the woman starts pulling me away, only I finally seem to have recovered from the shock of being – what? kidnapped? – by Sparrow – the worst pirate I had ever seen – and I start to object, try to fight her, which simply means that a couple of burly pirate men has to help her pull me along. The last I see of Sparrow as they drag me below, he is standing at the helm, looking at that broken compass of his and singing some ridiculous song about – well, about rum, of course.

And so I find myself in the brig of The Black Pearl – basically a great metal cage devoid of furniture. I sink down on the damp floor and lean against the very hull of the ship, trying to take stock of my situation. I am dressed in my good uniform – sans hat, wig and coat – now well and thoroughly soaked. There is a cut on the back of my right hand, fortunately neither particularly deep nor bleeding terribly much, and I manage to bind it with my handkerchief, which is as wet as the rest of me. I am unarmed and alone, the prisoner of a man whom I tried and failed to hang on this very day, a man who has every reason to hate me. At least nobody comes to torment and mock me. In fact, as the hours pass and the light dims at sunset, nobody comes at all, and soon I can add hunger and thirst to my list of complaints. I sit shivering in darkness only broken by the light of a lone lantern. Looking out of a small hole left by a knot, I can see the moonlight playing catch on the surface of the sea, and from somewhere above me, presumably on deck, comes the sound of dancing and drunken singing. I wonder if they have completely forgotten about me. I wonder if Elizabeth – no, not Elizabeth, miss Swann – I obviously no longer have any right to call her by her first name, seeing how she has chosen another – still, I wonder if she is sparing me a thought tonight. I wonder if Gillette has given chase yet. And most of all, I wonder what could possibly make this day any...

ATISHOO!

Oh, blast!


	2. The Hospitality of the Black Pearl

I wake to the noise of metal clanging against metal and open my eyes to see one of Sparrow´s pirates standing at the bars of my cage, having just dragged the barrel of his pistol over them. I shiver and look away, refusing to acknowledge the man who is obviously finding my situation very amusing if his wide grin is anything to go by.

The pirate drags his pistol across the bars again and again, but I refuse to show any reaction, refuse to take the bait. In the end he gets sufficiently annoyed to actually yell at me: "Oy, you, Navy – get up!" and only then do I stand, trying to look as superior as possible, which is not an easy feat when one is still damp and cold, hungry and thirsty and feeling like one is coming down with a fever – not to mention when one has just spent the night on the floor of the brig of a pirate ship with rats squeaking and moving about just out of range of the light from the lone lantern. Still, I try, and forcing my voice to not reveal my nervousness, I speak: "What do you want, pirate?" Alas, he doesn´t appear terribly impressed by my putting on a brave face, but simply smiles widely, thereby revealing a mouthful of extremely yellow teeth.

"The Captain would like to see you for breakfast in his cabin."

At the mere mention of food my stomach growls and the pirate´s grin widens. Still, I won´t give Sparrow the satisfaction of seeing me playing along with his games, so my reply is: "Unfortunately I find myself disinclined to accept his gracious invitation." There, as arrogant as I can make it. But this bloody pirate just smiles even wider, impossibly wide as it seems, looking for all world as if my refusal just made his day. "The Captain said you might not be feeling like breaking your fast. He said to say, that if that be the case, then there might be another invitation later, for dinner. Then you could try to gather some appetite `til then." Then he turns away from me and starts toward the stairs.

I see him take the first few steps and realise that I am apparently going to be starved into obediance. I suppose I ought to stand firm, but I -am- very hungry, even more thirsty and I am convinced I can feel that fever coming on – probably due to my spending a night in a cold and damp brig after having been very nearly drowned by a crazy pirate. And so I give in – because it seems like such a small thing to give in to, and because it surely is my first duty to keep my strength as best I can. "Wait!" and the pirate stops and turns slowly, oh so slowly, and he knows what I am going to say before I say it, and is that disappointment I see in his eyes? "I have changed my mind. I would like to accept the invitation."

And so the pirate comes back and actually enters the cage – although he keeps his pistol pointed at me when he does so – enters to put a pair of manacles on me. Then he gestures for me to precede him up the stairs and out on the deck, where the bright sunlight practically blinds me for a moment after the semidarkness of the brig, making me hesitate, but then I am pushed forward, violently, and I almost fall on my face. I hear sniggers and imagine that Sparrow´s crew of miscreants must be finding this quite entertaining: the great Commodore Norrington, the pirate hunter, now the miserable prisoner of a man whom he called `the worst pirate´ he had ever seen. Still, I try to walk as proudly as I can and ignore both sniggers and outright laughter. And then my escort – who has been walking right behind me with his pistol drawn all the time – steps up, pushes open the doors to the captain´s cabin and gestures for me to enter.

I would have expected Sparrow´s cabin to be like the man himself: tasteless but luxurious, but the cabin I enter seem somehow to be utterly devoid of personality – or at least devoid of Sparrow´s personality. Everywhere are half-burned candles, yet not a single one is lit. All the light comes from the windows. A strange metal contraption hangs from the ceiling, and in a couple of the corners stand cupboards. Another corner is shielded by heavy draperies – no doubt the bed is located behind them. And in the center of the room, dominating it, is a large table, currently half- buried in maps which one Jack Sparrow seems to be totally absorbed in. Yet at the sound of the doors being closed behind me he looks up and sends me the most infuriating smile.

"Ah, Commodore Norrington, how good of you to join me. I was beginning to worry that I might have to have breakfast all by my onesies. Come in, come in. Have a seat," and he gestures, still smiling, towards an empty chair.

"If you don´t mind, Mr. Sparrow, then I would prefer to stand." Now why did I say that? I´d love to sit down, especially after my stay in the brig. Stubborn pride, is that why? And for just a moment I see an angry glint in Sparrow´s eyes and realise that my words have somehow offended him. But how...

"-Captain- Sparrow," he snaps and then adds, while actually pushing me down into a chair: "and yes, I would mind, actually. You wouldn´t be wanting to question my hospitality, now would you, Commodore?"

"So far your hospitality has been somewhat wanting, -Captain- Sparrow." And it has! Why else would a shiver run through me at his touch, reminding me of my physical discomfort. Not that Sparrow looks the least bit guilty about his shameful treatment of me. Not really, though he fakes it.

"Why, you´re absolutely right. Where are my manners? Rum, Commodore?" and he offers me a half-filled bottle of the vile stuff. My facial expression is all the answer he gets. I´m thirsty, true, but certainly not for rum.

"No? How about an apple then?" and one is duly picked up from a bowl filled with apples and proffered. "The late and unlamented Captain Barbossa apparently had quite the liking for apples. Half the provisions on board consists of the bloody fruit," he continues as he places the fruit in my hand and picks up another for himself. Now, I don´t normally have apples for breakfast, but it´s better than rum and a lot better than nothing at all. But just as I am about to take a bite I start to sneeze and then to cough, horrible coughs that shake my entire body. My apple falls to the floor, unbitten.

If it wasn´t for the fact that I am feeling so miserable, I would probably be laughing at Sparrow. He had just gotten comfortable in a chair – boots on the table, rum in one hand and apple in the other – when my coughing fit started. He nearly fell to the floor, and the expression on his face would in almost any other situation be priceless. "Hey, now, mate – what is this?"

"This, Captain Sparrow," I somehow manage in-between coughs, "is your `hospitality´. This is getting very nearly drowned and then put out to dry in a cold and damp cage." And I feel so angry at him, right then and there, that if I had my pistol I would probably shoot him down in cold blood.

I would have expected some kind of reply – probably a mocking one – but Sparrow is uncharacteristically quit. Just walks around me, and I too busy coughing my lungs up to notice were he is going. Then I feel something heavy and –warm- being placed around my shoulders and, as if by instinct, I reach out to pull what turns out to be Sparrow´s coat tighter around me. I hear the cabin door opening and Sparrow shouting something – I cannot hear what through my own coughs, though. But a moment later he is back and I feel the rim of a mug being pressed to my lips. I try to push it away – I don´t want any rum, is that so bloody hard to understand? – but the mug doesn´t budge, and in the end I open my mouth and cold, clear water fills it – sweet and lovely and wonderful. My coughing abates and I just drink and only when the mug is suddenly empty do I realise that my hands are still busy pulling the coat close around me, and that Sparrow has been the one holding the mug all this time. I feel a stab of anger – how dare he... what? Confused now, for what did the man do just now to make me angry?

I look up, still shivering but thankfully no longer coughing, to see Sparrow sitting on the table right in front of me – far too close for my liking. "It appears you were right, Commodore," and I am – again – confused, until I realise that he is referring to my comment about his hospitality. And then he startles me by first placing his hand on my hot forehead, then picking at the formerly white handkerchief tied around my right hand. "Not very hospitable at all. I´ll have to remedy that," and he looks at me with those dark eyes of his – and I must be the madman, because I just thought I saw a glimt of compassion in their depths.

I´m not exactly sure how long we sit like that – me in the chair, Sparrow on the table. A knock on the door breaks the spell, and Sparrow is on his feet and returning with a tray with a bowl and a spoon on it in no time at all. A tray that he places in front of me with yet another of those damn smiles of his – they make him look just like a big cat. "Just you wait and see, Commodore James – it is James, right?" "It´s Commodore Norrington." "Just you wait, Commodore James, we´ll have you as good as new in next to no time."

I look suspiciously at the bowl on the tray and then at Sparrow, not entirely sure whether he actually expects me to eat what is in it or if this merely some form of a game – make the captive and hungry Commodore try to eat, then take the food away from him.. Apparently he sees my hesitation, for suddenly he picks up the spoon and dips it into the steaming contents of the bowl. "Open up, Commodore James," and I blink to realise that he is apparently planning to spoon-feed me. Again the anger, and this time it explodes: "I am not a child, Captain Sparrow. I am quite cabable of feeding myself, thank you very much." But the man´s cheerful good mood seems unshakeable. He just swallows the spoonful himself, shrugging at my outburst, then offers me the utensil with an "oh good – why don´t you do so, then?" I grab it, the sudden movement making the almost forgotten manacles clank, and starts to eat what to my surprise turns out to be a rather delicious chicken soup.

Sparrow is – thank God – silent while I eat, though I can practically feel his eyes on me. And when the bowl is empty – far too soon for my liking – I look up to see that infuriating smile that I imagined to be on his lips is quite rightly there. Still, eating the soup has given me time to calm down and pull myself together. Time to act the Commodore, I think, and not the sick wretch.

"If you would be so kind as to inform me of your intentions, -Captain- Sparrow."

"And what intentions might that be, my dear Commodore James?" and I swear his eyes are twinkling.

"Your intentions regarding me."

"Are you asking if I intend to ask your no doubt noble father for your hand in holy matrimony, my dear Commodore James?"

Damn the man. Can he not take anything seriously? I seem to half remember him laughing to himself up on the gallows, and now this. Still, this one is partly my own fault. Foolish choice of words. I should have expected Sparrow´s crazy line of thinking. And yet it is all I can do to keep from exploding.

"I meant, what do you intend to do with me, now that I am your prisoner?" and I rattle the manacles to make my point.

"Oh, those intentions," and Sparrow sits up straighter. Maybe he is going to be serious now? That turns out to be a vain hope, as he cocks his head and smiles again. Dear God, is he really a cat, then, and I the mouse that he is playing with?

"What do you think I intend to do with you, Commodore James?"

I refuse to look him in the eye as answer. "I think you intend to kill me." After all, the man is a pirate, and I tried to hang him only yesterday. What else could he possibly want to do with the greatest pirate hunter the Caribbean has ever known?

"Kill you, eh?" and I hear the sound of Sparrow rising. I still refuse to look at him. Let him kill me, if that is what he wants to do, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of letting him see the fear in my eyes.

The sound of a sword being drawn makes me look up despite of all of my intentions. The tip of a fine blade hovers at my throat, and I realise with a start that it is my sword, the beautiful blade that Governor Swann gave me at my promotion ceremony a few days ago – was it really only a few days ago? It feels like so much longer.

The cold sword-tip touches my pulse, an icy caress, and I shiver. Am I a coward, since I fear death, right here and right now, at the hands of this crazy pirate with his feline smiles and his cínnamon eyes?

Sparrow leans in and places his free hand on my shoulder. He is so close that I can smell his breath, the stink of rum mixed with the salt of the ocean and something else, something I cannot quite identify. Then his lips are at my ear, nearly touching it, and I just know that he is wearing that damn smile. Is it fear that keeps me from trying to move away from him? "Now, why would I be killing you, Commodore James? I see no profit in that for me," and he takes a couple steps backwards and resheats his – MY – sword. Oh yes, the man is most definitely a cat a-play, and judging by the gleaming of his eyes I make a most satisfactory mouse.

"Why would you spare my life, Captain Sparrow? It´s not like I would have spared yours," and I regret those words practically before they cross my lips, but it´s too late – they are said and for a bit they hang in the sudden silence between us.

"Ah yes, how good of you to remind me." Another smile, and I know – just know – that this one must be the one that signals to some unseen third party to step forth, to grab me, to hurt me, to kill me – but nothing of the sort happens. Instead, Sparrow simply keeps talking, while he pulls a chair over and sits down right in front of me, so close that the foul smell of his breath once again invades my personal space.

"You see, Commodore James, I had this thing I wanted to ask you regarding that. Now, be honest," and he lifts an admonishing finger, "how come you dislike me so very much?"

"Because you are a pirate." Surely he knew the answer to that question.

"Ah, but that can´t be the reason. At least, it can´t be the only reason."

"Oh, and pray tell why not?"

"Because you disliked me from the moment you saw me, my dear Commodore James, even before you saw the brand on my wrist." And now he is staring straight into my eyes, and there is a part of me that wants to hide from the sheer intensity of that gaze. Another part wants to lash out, wants to wipe off that feline smile that now seems everpresent. I am in no position to do either, only to reply to Sparrow´s statement.

"Surely you do not expect to be taken for anything but a pirate, considering your hardly coincidental appereance," and I would make some gesture to make my point, only those blasted manacles prevent my from doing so properly, so I refrain.

"Ah yes, why don´t we talk a little about my appearence, or rather, my appearence as it was when you and I first made each others acquaintance." He leans back, twirling one of his chin-braids between a couple of fingers, looking thoughtful. "As I recall, I was as that moment unarmed and without my hat and coat, having left said effects in the temporary care of a couple of your fine men, my dear Commodore James. It also seems to me that I was quite wet at the time. Now why was that, Commodore James?" He pauses for just one moment – no doubt for dramatic effect – why did the man not pursue a career in acting instead of defying the king´s law? It would have suited him perfectly.

"Oh yes! Now I remember! It was because I had just dived into the sea – to save one miss Swann from drowning, if my memory serves – and it does, admirably. And what was the first thing I saw, when next I looked up? You – with a sword in your hand and my death in your eyes. Now, why was that, my dear Commodore James?" and I am quite sure that I am not imagining that smug look on his face.

"You are a pirate." Even I can hear how feeble an excuse that is.

"Aye, that I am. But you didn´t know that, Commodore James. I look like one, that´s true enough, but you had no proof of it right then, -and- I had also just saved the future mrs. Commodore from a terrible death. And still your first reaction was to want me dead. Why is that, my dear Commodore James?"

But I have no answer for him. Of course he is right – what I did that day, on the docks of Port Royal, was, in a way, very, very wrong. I obeyed the law, yes, but my actions were – indecent. I could simply have let Sparrow go. Nobody demanded that I bare his wrist, seeking to reveal the brand I just knew would be there. Nobody would have criticized me if I had refrained from doing so, not even if Sparrow had later absconded with a ship. At that moment I had every reason to like, not dislike the man – so why had I not? I know why – don´t I – and Sparrow probably knows it too. Something to do with Elizabeth – miss Swann – the fact that he and not I had saved her. I lower my head, unable to bear Sparrow´s piercing gaze. How dare he – what? make me realize that I am no better than him? – Is that it? I don´t know? I am angry, confused – even shameful – but I simply do not know – and I have no answer to Sparrow´s question – at least not any answer that I would ever give him. And so, once again, the silence has joined our conversation like a domineering third party.

Sparrow is once again the one to chase the silence away. "As I thought." His voice is odd now, ever so slightly – sad? –, and I almost demand that he explain that remark – almost, but I manage to keep the words back this time, afraid of how this conversation might continue if I don´t.

"Commodore James, did you get a chance to look properly at my fair ship?" The man is crazy – simply crazy.

"No. Your men threw me in the brig before I had a chance to be given the grand tour. What has that got to do with anything, anyway?"

"Well, I´m trying to answer your question."

"What question?"

"The intentions one."

"But what does...," but I stop, refusing to let him drag me into some other strange discussion. Let him explain it in his own time or not at all. It´s not like I can do anything to make him do it faster, anyway.

"Well, if you had looked closer at my Pearl, then you, being the fine specimen of naval officer that you are, would undoubtedly have observed that not only has she recently been engaged in a battle and not yet been properly repaired after that, but she is in fact long overdue for a thorough overhaul. That mutinering bastard Barbossa apparently had no time to take proper care of what he claimed."

"I still fail to see how all this is relevant, Captain Sparrow."

"Bear with me, Commodore James, bear with me. What I´m saying is that my lovely Pearl is not quite at her best presently, savvy? A sufficiently determined naval officer with a sufficiently fine ship might conceivably be able to catch up with her, much as I hate to admit it. And that´s were you come in."

"Surely my presence aboard your ship will only serve as an incentive for the Navy to give chase."

"Give chase, aye, but they won´t do anything stupid as long as your fine self is enjoying the hospitality of The Black Pearl, savvy?"

"I see. So I am to be held hostage for the good behaviour of His Majesty´s Royal Navy, then," and I could swear that Sparrow is looking terribly pleased at my having finally figured this out.

"Aye, until my Pearl is as good as new."

"And afterwards? Are you simply going to let me live until you can no longer use me and -then- kill me?"

"Why this obsession with me killing you, Commodore James? I mean, if that really is what you want, then I guess it could be arranged," and I feel myself stiffen at his words, "but really, my dear Commodore, there wouldn´t be any profit in that. And surely you are aware of your own value?"

A pause before I reply. "Ransom, then?"

"Aye, ransom, and a pretty fine one too unless I am mistaken," and again he smiles at me and leans back in his chair. "So you see, Commodore James, you really have got nothing to worry about as long as your fine naval friends keep their distance, and as long as you don´t cause me any trouble, savvy?"

And now I feel relieved and angry at myself for feeling relieved. Angry at Sparrow too – how dare he, of all people, speak of causing trouble. Just look at all the trouble he has caused me: cursed pirates, the loss miss Swann to a common blacksmith, and now this. But I don´t speak. I am relieved and not sure if I dare to challenge this insane pirate captain just yet, or if I even have the strength for it, as a sudden shiver reminds me. And when the silence grows long once more and I realise that Sparrow is waiting for an answer I simply nod. Oh yes, I `savvy´ that a greedy pirate would rather want money than blood, even if it is the blood of the greatest pirate hunter in the Caribbean. And I suppose that now that all is said and done and Sparrow has amused himself a bit by messing with my head that I am going back down in the brig and the darkness...

"Good. Now, lets see. As long at we´re at sea you can spend your days on deck or in my cabin, as you please. The manacles stay on. Nights are spent in the brig. Oh, and you take your meals with me. Now, if you will excuse me," and before I have a chance to say or do anything he is on his feet and out of the door, leaving me sitting all alone in his cabin.

For a bit I simply sit, trying to figure out exactly how bad my situation is, but I find my thoughts – and my eyes – increasingly drawn to the bowl of apples on the table. My stomach is informing me that it would very much appreciate one, or two, or all of them. My mind is not similarly convinced, reminding me of what happened to the last apple, still lying were it landed on the floor. And that´s when I remember that I am still wrapped in Sparrow´s coat, warm and heavy and smelling ever-so-faintly of the rum that the man is seemingly never without for long. I shiver again at the realization, but I am not entirely sure that it has anything to do with the cold...


	3. "How Dare You?", or A Captive Audience

Above: the sky. Below: the sea. All around I can see nothing else. It feels as though The Black Pearl might as well be the whole wide world, and standing here on her deck, a playful gust of wind toying with my loose hair, I can see nothing to contradict that feeling.

The wind is cool, though not uncomfortably so – still, a whisper of gratitude runs through me – gratitude for the clothes, simple but warm, that I am presently wearing – clothes I found waiting for me (along with a table and a chair that someone had apparently moved in there, not to mention a hammock and a couple of blankets) upon my first return to the brig after my breakfast with Sparrow.

The thought of Sparrow makes me turn to glance up at the man, standing at the helm, as usual. He hardly ever seems to let anybody else so much as touch it - except for a trusted few like the black woman and the oddly familiar bewhiskered pirate, who is actually talking to him just now. And it is as he turns away from Sparrow and takes a swig from his hip flask that an image suddenly comes to mind – the same man in the same position dressed in a sailor´s uniform – and I quickly turn back to my contemplation of the sea and the horizon, not wanting to draw the other pirates´ attention with my facial expression. Giffs – Gribs – Gibbs! That´s it! He was with us on the crossing from England so many years ago, when we sailed the new governor, Governor Swann, across the Atlantic. The voyage where I first met Eli- miss Swann – and mr. Turner too. But what is he doing here? – on a pirate ship? – this pirate ship? As far as I recall he was not a bad man, just a little to fond of the drink and with a habit of grumbling before obeying orders (though he always obeyed them – and well too). Surely it takes more than that to make a man turn down the pirate´s path?

I shake my head, trying to clear it of these pointless thoughts. After all, whatever Gibbs might have been, once upon a time, at present he would appear to be a friend of Sparrow´s and thus hardly inclined to help me escape from The Black Pearl.

In fact, the person on board who seems to dislike me the least is Sparrow himself. All of his men – and his woman – give the impression of wishing me dead, but they obey Sparrow´s orders, and his orders are not to touch me as long as I am wearing those damn manacles. Still, I feel their eyes upon me everytime I am on deck, like now, which is probably the reason why I have spent most of the last couple of days in Sparrow´s cabin. That and my cold, which is thankfully almost wholly – though not quite – consigned to the past now, part of which I probably owe Sparrow thanks for. The man is simply crazy – serving me chicken soup at every meal and fussing over me like some old woman – not really what one would expect from a fearsome buccaneer. It´s annoying – to say the least – I swear, if I never see or smell or taste chicken soup again I will personally thank every saint and angel in the Heavens – and the same goes for apples! Sparrow was apparently perfectly serious about half the ships provisions consisting of the damned fruit.

Sparrow´s odd behaviour does have a few advantages – such as the bandage currently on my right hand. I had hardly had a chance to pick up an apple after he had left so abruptly the first day, before he was back with clean bandages and hot water to clean the cut with. I pick at the bandage and suppress a smile at the thought of Sparrow as a nurse, tending the ill and injured. Strangely enough I suspect that he would be rather good at it – chameleon that he is.

I shake my head again to clear it of all these strange trains of thought, and return to contemplating the horizon. Now the monotony of it has to my surprise been broken by a tiny black speck which grows and grows until even I, who are without the luxury of a spy-glass, can tell that it is an island.

The island.

La Isla de Muerta.

A shiver runs through me at the memory of my last visit to that oh so literally cursed place.

"I see you recognise it." Sparrow´s voice, coming from right next to me, startles me. For someone who seems so clumsy he can move surprisingly stealthily when he so pleases.

"Is that our destination, then?"

"Aye, our first destination."

"Don´t tell me you intend to give your beloved ship a maintenance check in that place."

" _First_ destination, Commodore James. We´re just going to be picking something up, then we´ll be off again. Shouldn´t even take all day – or night, as it were," he adds with a glance at the sun´s position close to the horizon.

I send him a slightly quizzical look as I inquire: "Picking what up?", already knowing that I might as well ask, even if he does not choose to answer. If I don´t, he will simply keep on trying to make me ask until I give in and do – might as well get it over with.

"Now that would be telling, wouldn´t it? You´ll just have to wait and see." and then he returns to the helm to pilot his precious Pearl through the graveyard of ships surrounding the Isle of the Dead. I remain standing at the railing, studying the countless wrecks, trying to guess what they were. One appears to be a Spanish galleon, but most are much smaller. Names can be picked out on the side of some of them. Some, like Endymion, looks like small navy ships, another, Lorelei, strikes me as a merchant vessel. A third ship, The Raucuos Raptor, is such a small and eccentric-looking a craft that I doubt she can have been anything but a pirate ship, even discounting the name.

The sun is sinking into the sea, painting the horizon in colours of flame and fire, as I turn to send Sparrow another glance, only to discover that he has left the helm to the elderly pirate with the parrot and is apparently giving mr. Gibbs and the woman – what was her name? Anamaria? – some sort of instructions. Then they go, one to make some rowboats be put in the water, the other heads down to were most of the ship´s crew have gathered. Sparrow approaches me yet again.

"Are you coming, Commodore James?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"If only you would," and he sends me a smile which I refuse to react to. Then, noting that I am not going to take the bait and engage in another discussion with him, he sends me look as though I must be a complete idiot if I could possibly have failed to understand his very simple question. "Coming. As in coming along – with me, as it is in this case, not with somebody else. Anyway, are you?"

"Whereto?" I ask. Stupid question, really. There are not so very many places to go to right here and now. Sparrow just rolls his eyes, exasperated, and points at the dark cave opening.

"I fail to see why I should wish to go ashore on this particular island."

"Just thought you might like to see the cursed treasure for yourself, Commodore James, seeing as how you are several men shorter today thanks to it, and seeing as you didn´t take a peek last time. But maybe you did. Guess I was mistaken," and he shrugs and turns away, knowing full well that I never went ashore on this island.

I look at his receding back for about three seconds before thinking `Well, what the hell´ and calling out "Wait." And he just turns around to send me one of those smiles that shows each and every one of his gold teeth and beckons me along, as though he knew from the start what my answer would wind up being.

And so I find myself sitting next to Jack Sparrow in a rowboat while some strong-armed pirate are rowing us into the dark cave. A shiver runs down my spine. Must be that damn cold.

Sparrow has brought a torch along and raises it high into the air as we enter the cave. A faint glitter catches my attention and my eyes are drawn towards a small pile of coins lying precariously on a narrow ledge, looking as though they are only seconds away from tumbling into the shallow water. Another glimmer and my head turns to see a magnificent sapphire. Yet another glimmer, and another, and another, and out of the corner of my eye I can see Sparrow´s grin. "You never did go in and see the treasure for yourself, did you, Commodore James?" His voice is not even trying to hide his amusement, but I cannot think of some angry or dignified reply right now. At some other time I would have spoken of my dead men who had to be given decent burials, of a brig fit to burst with formerly cursed pirates, of a `future mrs. Commodore´ and her doting father who had to be brought safely back to Port Royal, but right now my eyes are caught by every glint and glitter of what is apparently just a taste of what´s to come, and all I can do is nod.

I don´t know what I expected a treasure cave to look like – I´m not really sure if I ever expected to see one. In my experience pirates spend their loot – on rum, on food, on willing women. What good would it do to them all piled up like some dragon´s hoard? But maybe I did imagine one once, as a child, in those early days before my teachers´ cold facts and logic stole so many fantasies from me, and maybe what I imagined was akin to the scenery now unfolding before my very eyes: mountains of coins that must originally have been minted in half the countries on the globe, shining in the torch- and moonlight. Gems, goblets, candlepieces, pieces of jewellery, silverware, figurines – even what appears to be bolts of silk and expensive-looking pieces of furniture buried beneath all those coins. I know that I am staring – and that Sparrow seems to enjoy seeing me so dumbfounded – but I cannot help it. My only comfort is that the other pirates – both the one rowing the boat I´m currently sitting in and those sitting in the two other boats that has followed us into the cave – seems to be sharing my feelings of awe, though that comfort is terribly small.

The spell is broken by the boat´s keel scraping against coins, the water so shallow that Sparrow jumps unceremoniously out of the boat to go ashore – and I doubt if there ever was a shore to rival this one before. I have read of Utopia where gold is used to manufacture chamberpots and manacles, and I have heard of El Dorado, where the streets are supposedly paved with the metal, but here the gold keeps company with layers silver and sundry gems. I stumble out of the boat, following Sparrow, not willing to let him think that I am the least bit amazed by this stockpile of illgotten gains (earlier dumbfoundedness be damned).

"Isn´t it a beautiful sight, Commodore James?" and for once the gold of his smile is outdone by his surroundings. He turns to Gibbs and Anamaria, not giving me any time to reply.

"Captain, be ye sure we´re just to take a few chestfuls?" Gibbs´ voice is as I remember it, gruff from the salt of the sea and the contents of his hip flask.

"Aye, just as I said."

"Ah, but it´s bad luck leaving all this swag behind like that, Captain," and he makes a sweeping gesture to encompass the contents of the entire cave.

"Lucky thing, then, that I know how to counter it: the people leaving the swag behind make damn sure that they are the only people who know where said swag can be found." While he has spoken, Sparrow has slung a friendly arm around Gibbs´ shoulders and are now smiling his most winning smile. "`Sides, if we tried to put all this aboard my fair Pearl she´d sink like a rock."

"But are we the only ones knowing how to find the island?" Anamaria asks, looking straight at me, and I swear there is murder in her eyes.

"Aye, that we are, seeing as the good Commodore here," a small – mocking – bow in my direction, "was so obliging as to hang what was left of Barbossa´s crew before it was to have been my turn to dance at the end of a hemp rope."

"What about all those navy-men you led here?"

"Anamaria, Anamaria, have a little faith, eh? The ones who new how to get here were among the casualties of the little skirmish between the Commodore´s men and Barbossa´s – really, don´t you think that if that was a problem that I would have thought of it? Now..." But I don´t hear what Sparrow tells the pair of them. I have turned on my heel and walked away from them, my feet slipping on coins at every step.

How dare he? Good and loyal men, every last one of them, who lost their lives because of a fool´s errand that -Sparrow- lured me on, how dare he treat their sacrifice like nothing more than a piece of good luck specifically aimed at him. The clinking of coins sent spinning by my boots mingle with the clanking of those damn manacles I´m still wearing, and I just keep walking across the piles of treasure, at one point nearly stumbling over a very dead pirate – Captain Barbossa, I presume - until there is only water in front of me and I can go no further. There I stop and stand, seething at Sparrow´s words, at Sparrow´s attitude, at Sparrow.

I guess sneaking up on someone is not so easy when the sneaking has to be done whilst traversing several kings´ ransoms, because this time I hear Sparrow coming. Part of me wants to hit the man, strangle him, do _something_ to him, but another part prevents me from doing so by reminding me that killing the leader of my captors without having any means of escaping them would be – unwise, so I settle for looking straight ahead, ignoring the blackguard.

"Now, I´m aware that you´re not too pleased with the company your keeping at present, Commodore James, but that was a tad abrupt, you leaving like that, wasn´t it?" I offer no reply, simply stare straight ahead, trying to appear to be ignoring the man completely – which simply makes him move in front of me – "eh, Commodore?" – in his attempt to get my attention. Unfortunately I am standing on the very edge of a mountain of loose coins and so it should come as no surprise to anyone that Sparrow – who seems to have trouble staying upright at the best of times – presently manages to loose his footing. If I was not so angry I would probably be laughing at his attempts to regain it – swaying back and forth and waving his arms in the air like some overgrown piece of poultry, his hat falling of his head and down into the water below – laugh, that is, until he grabs hold of me in an attempt to steady himself and only succeeds in making me loose my footing too, the end result of which is that we are – again – falling, only this time the fall is over almost as soon as it begins, and we find ourselves sitting halfway in each other´s laps in ankle-deep water with doubloons and guineas and Louis d´Ors raining down on us. Sparrow looks around him with a faintly confused expression. "Now how did we end up down here?"

"DAMN YOU, SPARROW!" The words leave my mouth at there own volition, a loud yell, as I try to disentangle myself from the man and get back on my feet. "Damn you and your bloody ship and your blasted treasure," and the disentanglement is proving to be rather difficult – partly because Sparrow is sitting on my left leg, partly because those _bloody_ manacles have gotten tangled into – off all things – one of those _blasted_ braids of his, which means that any moving away on my part is quite useless, since he just moves right along.

"`Ey, now, Commodore, what´s all this?" and surprisingly strong hands grab hold of my wrists. Sparrow leans forward to stare into my eyes, but all the answer I can manage is a rather faint "damn you."

"Oy, Captain, do you need any help down there?" and cautious movements at the top of the newly rearranged coin pile make it abundantly clear that we have attracted the other pirates´ attention.

"Get back to work, mr. Duncan. The good Commodore and I were just having ourselves a bit of a friendly chat," and his eyes never leave mine as he lets go of my wrists to gingerly disentangle the braid. "Weren´t we, Commodore?" and a shove from a knee makes me blurt out some form of confirmation of Sparrow´s words, though I doubt that I will ever be able to remember exactly what I just said. But apparently the pirates have been reassured by our words, for they return to whatever they were doing, leaving me and Sparrow alone once more.

"Now, I believe we were discussing your sudden departure, weren´t we, my dear Commodore James?" and to my complete surprise Sparrow actually _straddles_ me, his cinnamon eyes never leaving mine. I try to push him off, but I am not yet fully recovered from my cold and simply don´t have the strength to make him budge. Damn him!

"How dare you?" I hiss through gritted teeth. "How dare you waltz into my town, threaten the woman I was planning to marry, steal my ship and then sink it, lead my men and me into an ambush set by _undead_ pirates, kidnap me and lock me up in a cage, make me wear these -blasted- manacles, and then refer to the men who died valiantly fighting those same undead pirates in such an irrespectful and callous manner! How dare you!" and I find myself quite short of breath after making that little speech. Again I try to push Sparrow off, but to no avail.

I open my mouth to resume my tirade, only to realize that I should have kept an eye on what Sparrow´s hands were doing instead of staring into his eyes. Somehow he has managed to loosen the red bandanna that normally keeps his unruly hair under some faint semblance of control, and now he is stuffing it into my mouth, binding the ends into a knot behind my head, effectively gagging me. I lift my hands to get the filthy rag out of my mouth – it tastes like sweat and rum and salt and _please_ , God, don´t let the man have lice – but Sparrow once again grabs my wrists and proceeds to pin them over my head. I feel coins and gems poking into my back as he makes himself even more comfortable on top of me and all I can do is glare angrily at him. How dare he?

"You seem to have gotten yourself quite the list of complaints there, my dear Commodore James. Now, why don´t you just take some nice deep breaths and try to calm down a little, then ol´ Jack will be sure to make full use of having himself a captive audience and try to give you some answers, what say you to that?" and when I don´t give any answer – how am I supposed to do so with a gag in my mouth? – he rearranges his hold on my wrists so that one of his hands are freed to poke me in the chest – "eh, Commodore?" – so I settle for actually doing as he has instructed, filling my lungs with slow, deep breaths of air, each and every one of them saturated with the rum-smell emanating from Sparrow. Apparently this satisfies the man – at least he doesn´t ask (or poke) again.

"Now, first things first," and he lifts his finger admonishingly, "it´s _Captain_ Sparrow. How many times do I have to tell you?" I just glare at him and try to throw him off – again. Doesn´t work. It would appear that I have absolutely no choice when it comes to listening to whatever this madman has to say.

"Are you listening, Commodore James? Good. Now, first of all, forgive me so very much for even coming to Port Royal in the first place, but it just happened to be the nearest port when my boat decided to spring a leak – or Anamaria´s boat, as it, in fact, were. Nevermind." His voice drips with sarcasm as he continues," and pray also forgive me for saving the life of the future mrs. Commodore-to-be, even though I´m fairly sure we already discussed that bit." Oh yes, we did – and Sparrow won that duel of words, just as it seems he will win this one – by default if in no other way.

"As regards the Interceptor," and suddenly the sarcasm is gone from his voice and his eyes seem strangely serious, "then I never ment for her to come to any harm, Commodore James. She was a very fine ship. But I will not have you blaming me for sinking her. That was Barbossa´s doing, not mine, savvy?" and I nod – feeling the deep breaths taking effect – faintly remembering Turner and miss Swanns retelling of The Interceptor´s last stand – a story in which Sparrow only played a very small and pretty unimportant role, when all is said and done.

"As for leading people into ambushes, then you have gotten your memory a bit mixed up, I think. It was Barbossa who was to be ambushed – by your own fine self, actually – only he didn´t do as I wanted him to do. Come to think of it, neither did you, so there you go. If everybody had just followed my plan then you would never even have had to worry about them being cursed. Well, that´s life, eh?" and his grin makes me angry – angry enough to try to throw him off again – with predictable results. Sparrow´s sole reaction is a raised eyebrow.

"Let´s see, what was next on that list of yours – oh yes, kidnapping – hmm, we kidnap and ravage and don´t give a hoot, drink up me hearties, yo ho" he sings, low and off-key, apparently distracted by that stupid song. Now this – this is Hell. Another attempt to get him off of me gets him back to the matter at hand. "Right, well, told you already about needing a little insurance against the Navy, right? Besides, _you_ were the one to be so close to me up on the ramparts that I could actually pull it off. As for the brig, well, playing fair is turned around, no that´s not right," and I roll my eyes in exasperation – will he just get on with it – "anyhow, The Pearl´s brig ain´t to cozy, I´ll give you that, but the prison in Port Royal isn´t exactly pleasant either. That dog, for instance... Now, whoever got that idea, my dear Commodore James, was cruelty personified. I wonder, was it you?" and suddenly dangerous eyes look into mine for a heartbeat, then the lips curls up in a grin. "Nah. I don´t think you would be that heartless, my dear Commodore James."

"Now, the manacles;" and the free hand reaches up to toy with the chain," I would actually like to apologize about them, seeing how you didn´t have me clapped in irons during our little adventure. Trouble is that I had a reason to want to stay around anyway, and I rather doubt you´ve got one right now. Besides, my crew of scallywags aren´t too keen on having an officer of His Majesty´s Royal Navy on board as it is. Best not give them any reason to be unhappy about it, savvy?" I am faintly surprised – and faintly worried – to realize that I am actually believing Sparrow. It´s the strangest feeling.

"And finally, your men," and Sparrow´s voice is as serious as I have ever heard it and he never blinks as he looks me straight in the eye – yet again. "Do not think, Commodore James, that I wanted those men dead. Do not think that I take -any- pleasure from them being dead. I tried to make things happen so there would be no deaths on your side of the battle – didn´t work. But _I_ did not kill them, understood?" and I wonder if it is a mark of his seriousness that he did not just make use of his customary `savvy´. "I´m sorry if my remarks back there sounded – disrespectful, but the company wasn´t exactly right for a bloody eulogy, savvy?" and of course he is right. Even if these particular pirates take no particular pleasure in the deaths of my men, then they can hardly be expected to mourn people whose job it was to hunt them.

"Now, would you be having any more questions or complaints right now," – I shake my head – "good. Now, are you going to behave yourself, or am going to have to have you rowed back to the Pearl straight away? Behave?" – I nod – "Good," and at _last_ he lets go of my wrists and stands up, giving me a chance to get that filthy rag out of my mouth, only to have it plucked from my grasp by Sparrow who reties it around his head. I hesitantly take the hand he then offers me and am hauled to my feet. Sparrow looks around, searchingly, until he with a "ha" and a couple of strides once again is in possession of his hat. "Come along, Commodore James," and with a pat on my shoulder he turns to regard the coin pile.

Getting down from the treasure mountain was fairly easy. Going in the opposite direction turns out to be a lot harder, and – after having managed to get halfway to the top a couple of times, only to slide down – Sparrow settles for going around it, wading through the shallow water. Not that it is much of a detour.

I follow a few steps behind Sparrow, silent and internally seething, although I am fairly sure I manage to remain outwardly calm – in fact, I have decided not to let anything Sparrow might say or do get to me – it will only encourage him.

When we once again come within visual range of the other pirates, Sparrow grabs my arm and pulls me along, and I almost stumble on my way up a new coin pile, only to find myself standing in front of what would appear to be some sort of stone chest decorated with heathen symbols, placed right in the middle of a pillar of moonlight.

"Ah, here we are."

"And what would this be?" I ask using my Commodore-voice (which, admittedly, is remarkably similarly to how my Captain-voice used to be only - what? – a week or so? ago) causing him to spare me a glance.

"Why, this is what caused all this trouble in the first place," and as he speaks he steps aside to reveal what must be hundreds of gold coins glittering in the moonlight – each and every one of them decorated with a grinning skull. I reach out to pick one up – to get a better look at it – only to feel Sparrow´s grip around my wrist – "you _really_ don´t want to be doing that, Commodore James" – and – remembering mr. Turner´s rather incredible retelling of the details of the curse – I pull my hand back.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Well, first I wanted to show it to you – I guess that´s done. Now – oh, good, mr. Ladbroc, mr. Kursar, if you would be so kind," and two burly pirates seems to have appeared out of nowhere, "wrap those chains around this chest – after putting the lid back in place – then put it in one of the rowboats. And you are not going to take a single one of these coins, savvy?"

"You´re taking it with you?" and the Commodore-voice is slightly spoiled by my surprise. I wouldn´t have thought that anybody would actually want this treasure, not when they were fully aware of the reality of the curse. Sparrow´s answer? A cryptic: "I´m going to make sure it doesn´t cause any more trouble." Typical.

"I would have thought that you had enough gold now to sate even your appetite for treasure, even without that chest."

Sparrow grins at me as he replies: "Oh, but, as I told young mr. Turner not so very long ago, then not all treasure is silver and gold, Commodore James."

"Indeed, Captain Sparrow, that would appear to be quite obvioues" – my voice drips with sarcasm – "some of it would appear to consist of gems," and I pick up a handful of tiny, tiny rubies to make my point. They tumble from my hand like so many crimson grains of sand.

For one long, long moment Sparrow just looks at me, the only movement a slight twitching at one corner of his mouth. Then he burst into laughter, his whole body shaking, his eyes twinkling with amusement. For a moment he seems to regain control of himself – "Oh, Commodore James, I knew you had it in you somewhere" – but then one look at me makes his face crack again, and it is all I can do to keep from bursting into laughter myself. The two pirates, who are busily wrapping chains around the stone chest, pause to look at their captain, then simply shrug at his odd behaviour and return to their task. I suppose that prolonged exposure to this man makes you expect strange behaviour from him, and to simply ignore it if there does not seem to be any unusually worrisome points to his madness. Now, why does that thought – frighten? worry? – what? – me?

At long last Sparrow manages to get himself under control and looks at me with an amused expression – "gems, eh?" I won´t let him get to me and consequently refuse to make any comment whatsoever – although I must admit to feeling the faintest hint of gratification – I wonder how many fine naval officers have managed to make Captain Jack Sparrow laugh? Probably quite a few, but discounting those whose whole behaviour or attitude or situation amused him. And why am I even thinking about this? What does it even matter?

"Do you know what I think, Commodore James?" and Sparrow´s voice is still amused. "I think that it would be a terrible shame if a man such as for instance your fine self were to come here and see all this lovely treasure, only to leave without any of it. I think that would be a terrible, terrible shame." While he has spoken, Sparrow has begun to look searchingly at the piles of assorted valuables. I am about to tell him that I do not want any part of this treasure, that if anybody has any right to it, then it is the survivors of The Black Pearl´s decade of pillaging, but before I have a chance to open my mouth Sparrow has picked up something with a "perfect" and a triumphant look in his eyes. "Now, isn´t this just pretty?"

I must admit that Sparrow´s find is quite `pretty´, though it is hardly the thing I would have picked for a souvenir. Spinning hypnotically at the end of a fine gold chain is the finest emerald I have ever seen – not that I have seen so very many. Oh, but I must me hypnotized, for next thing Sparrow takes a step forward and I – instead of matching it with a step backward – simply remain exactly where I am.

Sparrow lifts the emerald up so that it is spinning right next to my face, glittering and gleaming, and then he smiles. "The same lovely green as your eyes, Commodore James." And now I do take a backward step – winding up within a moonbeam – starting to protest, even though I´m not quite sure why I´m protesting. "Captain Sparrow, I hardly think..." "But I do!" and before more words can be spoken he moves forward – again – puts the fine chain around my neck and takes a step backwards to nod as if agreeing with himself. And _then_ he catches me completely by surprise by suddenly stepping forward and planting a _kiss_ on my cheek, then smile and tell me, in a voice that is almost a purr: "It suits you, James. You look lovely." Then, before I can recover from the shock, he whirls and starts to walk in the direction of the treasure-gathering scallywags he calls members of his crew.

I manage to refrain from yelling or shouting at Sparrow – or rather, the sheer shock keeps me silent at first and once it wears of it seems ridiculous to start making noise – besides, I have promised myself not to let Sparrow get to me – no matter what he does. So all I do is to remain standing within the moonbeam. I lift a hand to my cheek, wondering at my lack of reaction, wondering exactly how crazy Jack Sparrow is, and wondering – ever-so-faintly – if that madness might possibly be contagious.

It must be the supreme irony of the universe that it is while I am having these particular thoughts that I feel something brush against my leg, causing me to look down to see (and to let out a startled scream that makes every pirate in the cave turn to look at me when I do see) a monkey – or, to be exact, a simian skeleton with bits of rotten flesh and tufts of matted fur still clinging to it, remains of half-rotten internal organs visible through gaping holes where there was once skin, a glint of gold in one bony paw.

Possibly contagious? Better make that probably.


	4. Of Shadow-truths and Warnings

Sparrow's prediction regarding our time of departure from La Isla de Muerta does not – as it turns out – prove to be terribly accurate. It is well into the afternoon before we weigh anchor and set sail.

In all fairness it should be noted that most of the delay is caused by events outside of Sparrow's control – first there is the matter of the cursed monkey having to be caught and uncursed. Catching it appears to be difficult enough, since the simian apparently knows every nook and cranny in the rather sizable cave, but at long last Mr. Gibbs has it in his grasp – only to turn around and find the stone chest closed and chained shut, and while some of the other pirates fumble with the chains, the little monster bites Gibbs, causing him to let go of it, thereby starting the entire process anew. It takes several attempts before someone thinks of getting the chest open _before_ catching the monkey and finally the creature is uncursed and the lid slapped in place just in time to prevent the light- fingered animal (which has once again managed to get loose) from picking up another coin. Again it attempts to get away, but this time the sound of a gunshot echoes through the cave and it falls to the ground – dead. I look up to see Anamaria standing with a smoking pistol in her hand.

The whole monkey business takes hours – plenty of time for those of Sparrow's crew left on board the Pearl to grow quite curious about the treasure – so in the end they have to be rowed back and forth in shifts to allow each and every one of them a chance to gawk at the cave's contents and to fill his pockets with sundry coins and pieces of jewellery - not that all the looting seems to make much of a dent in the treasure heaps. But eventually we leave the damned place behind.

I find it amazing how quickly even the most unusual situations can become routine – yet once were back on the open sea I find myself repeating the same pattern of living as I have done pretty much every day since my abduction. Every morning I wake up to the noise of rattling keys and a pirate (rarely the same one twice – I am getting a feeling that it is a duty for which they draw straws and send the loser) puts the manacles on me before escorting me up to the captain's cabin and then, after breakfast, I am left to my own devices until sunset signals the time for my return to the brig.

Breakfast with Sparrow – who has thankfully stopped serving me chicken soup, though the apples remain on the menu -, lunch with Sparrow – more apples – and dinner with Sparrow – even more bloody apples. In between meals I am mostly left to myself, for which I am grateful – it gives me time to think about my situation – mostly about Sparrow's queer behaviour in the cave. _He_ does not as much as mention it – during meals he either spends his time questioning me about Mr. Turner and Miss Swann (or Will and Lizzie, as he prefers to call them, although he adds a `future Mrs. Commodore´ to the mix every once in a while – to taunt me, I have no doubt) or he regales me with stories of his great adventures – stories that I am quite sure are in the very least partly made up as he goes along.

Having just spent half a dinner listening to the third version of `the island incident´ (which bears about as much resemblance to version one and two as it does to the facts of the matter – that is to say: precious little) I make a comment about this. I am not sure why I do so – maybe to get some sort of reaction out of Sparrow – any reaction, even anger – but he just smiles at me.

"But, Commodore James, who are we to say which one of the stories is true and which is false? Who knows, maybe they're all false, or all gospel truth, eh?"

"That's ridiculous!" Ah, but surely I did not expect reason or logic from a known madman.

"Well, in that case, my dear Commodore James, why don't you enlighten me?" and he leans forward, still smiling.

"What really happened is the truth. The rest are simply stories."

"I see. But what if only one person knows what really happened? If he chose to tell something else, wouldn't that then become the truth, eh?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I seem to remember Miss Swann mentioning something about rum-runners." I hope he hears the sarcasm in my voice.

"All right, bad example," but he does not appear to be the least bit annoyed at my retort. If anything he looks as though he is just beginning to enjoy himself. "How about this, then: An event occurs – say, like a famous pirate captain miraculously escaping a desert island. Now, lots of stories gets told about said escape" – "mainly by said pirate" I interrupt, but he just grins – "aye" – and continues: "Now, the years pass and the world turns and what do you know – the next thing a hundred years has gone by and everybody who knew what was originally the truth has gone to a better place. So who can now tell which tale is true and which is a lie? Not to mention if every version _except_ one is forgotten – won't that version then become the truth, no matter what actually occurred?" and then Sparrow drinks deeply from his mug of rum – apparently all his talking has made him thirsty (not that he is ever -not- thirsty for that particular beverage).

"Hardly. In that peculiar scenario of yours the truth would simply have been forgotten – the facts would not have changed in the least."

"Oh, but Commodore James, why do you keep insisting that the facts have anything to do with the truth? Truth is that which lasts, and mere reality have absolutely no say in the matter. I mean, it's not like people are too keen on the facts anyhow."

"What do you mean, people are not `keen on the facts´?" Almost against my will I find myself intrigued by Sparrow's illogical arguments.

"Well, how about our little adventure?"

"What about it?"

"Well, let's see if we can agree on the facts – not the truth, mind, the facts: Pirates, curses, Aztec gold. Agreed?"

"Yes. And so?"

"So we have the facts. Now, do you really seriously think that anyone without personal acquaintance with said facts are ever going to even consider considering them the truth?"

"Maybe not," I admit, suddenly reminded of the half-written report to the Admiralty that lies locked in my desk drawer back at the fort – a report that simply refuses to sound even remotely credible no matter how I put it. I can just imagine how the high lords will react ("Cursed pirates – what a ridiculous fairytale! Now, where is the real report?"). Still, I refuse to let Sparrow win this argument. "But that does not mean that it is not the truth."

"No?"

"No. The people who did experience this `little adventure´, as you insist on calling it, will remain quite sure of the truth of the matter."

"And you're quite sure about that, are you?"

"Of course."

"But what if I told you, Commodore James, that already some of the people who shared our little adventure are questioning what happened? They'll be busy telling themselves that they went temporarily insane that night, that it was the moonlight playing tricks on them, that they had had a little too much rum – not that you can ever really have too much rum - or that their last meal had been of a – shall we say - doubtful quality – anything except admitting to themselves that there really are things that go bump in the night," and then he leans back to quaff some more rum.

"You're telling me that people will deny the evidence of their own eyes?"

"Aye, in favour of the evidence of their common sense," and then he leans forward, perhaps noting my expression (which might presently be troubled or merely thoughtful – I'm not entirely certain) "I've seen it happen before, mate. Seen people make up such – why don't we just call `em `shadow-truths´ and save your precious word's integrity, eh? – anyway, seen `em do it rather than admit to the facts."

"Are you saying, then, that we are going to invent one of these – shadow-truths as well, Captain Sparrow?"

"Well, you might, seeing as how you're such a fine and sensible man from such a no doubt fine and sensible world, and you won't be finding anybody back in that world who'll support you in remembering the real truth. And really, Commodore James, be honest – has it not crossed your mind at any time that it might all have been some sort of nightmare?"

Briefly I think back on the dawn after the battle against Barbossa´s men – how unlikely it had all seemed in the cold, clear light of day – how unreal. But I still refuse – perhaps simply on principle – to let Sparrow make me admit anything. So instead of acknowledging his point I ask: "So, I suppose the great Captain Sparrow alone is immune."

Once again I am treated to the sight of a gold-toothed grin: "Nay, not immune, just perfectly aware of how it works – I see what's happening, so sometimes it doesn't happen to me, savvy? Maybe you'll get some of the same now, if you just hold on to the thought, eh?"

Something about the idea of receiving anything from Sparrow (even something as intangible and ridiculous as this alleged `immunity´) makes me feel oddly ill at ease (and suddenly the emerald necklace feels unusually heavy), and I hardly listen when Sparrow continues in an odd and almost dreamlike tone of voice: "`Sides, I have much more to forget from this little adventure than anyone else," and when I do spare him a glance I see him looking oddly at his own raised hand, wiggling the fingers simply for the sake of moving them. It seems like a madman's gesture – or would, except I once again remember Mr. Turner's retelling of the events that took place within the cave that night and suddenly Sparrow's behaviour makes perfect sense. I wonder how many other parts of his seemingly crazy behaviour are simply souvenirs from various adventures – and the very thought manages to send a chill down my spine and make me shiver. Perhaps it is to force myself to think about something else – anything else – that I look back upon our conversation and grasp at a point as though it was a rope thrown out to a drowning man (or maybe it is looking at Sparrow appearing to study his own bone structure intently that I wish to escape?).

"But despite of all that, then by agreeing to call this idea of yours a shadow-truth, you are admitting, that I am correct and you are mistaken."

My words appear to get through to Sparrow, for his eyes turn to look at me and he raises an eyebrow: "How do you figure that, Commodore James?"

"A shadow is not a real thing, Captain Sparrow. A shadow is merely a poor imitation of something."

"Pure semantics! Give it another name then!" he scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

"You picked the name, now you are stuck with it." Ah, but it actually feels good to win one of these word-duels with Sparrow. Wonder why he is still smiling, though.

"Stick with it I will, then. But Commodore James, what makes you think that a shadow is not a real thing in and of itself?"

Again? Won't the man ever admit defeat? "The shadows on the cave wall might appear to be real, but they are cast by what is really real," and I lean back, prepared to enjoy Sparrow's dumbfounded look when he fails to figure that one out.

"Actually, what's really real would be what's outside the cave altogether, mate," and I feel the smirk fade from my lips. Where the Hell did he learn Plato? "And actually, my dear Commodore James, you've just made my point, because those shadows on the wall, they are what everybody thinks is the truth – the shadow-truth, as it were – while in actual fact they are double false. Now, maybe this is a little bit like math, eh, Commodore James? I wonder, does two lies make one truth?"

I feel my mind reeling at Sparrow's twisted logic – and especially at the fact that I am seeing a certain amount of logic in it. I hurriedly gulp down some water to hide my temporary confusion. I wonder if it is possible to get intoxicated merely by being in the presence of an individual completely saturated with alcohol – that would certainly explain my current state of mind. I shake my head, trying to get rid of some of those mists that seem to be clouding my mind, looking for something that will make this conversation turn in my favour.

Sparrow, however, seems to interpret my head-shake as denial, for he launches into yet another one of his examples: "No? How about this little example, then? One day in the not too distant future when we're well rid of each other, we both tell the tale of your stay with me. Now, you stick to all your lovely little facts, I'll think up something really outrageous, and then we'll see who people believe, savvy?" and I feel a coldness in my belly at the thought of this. Not only is Sparrow perfectly aware that the present facts are hardly something that I would want other people to know – as the weight of the emerald constantly reminds me – but my mind is oh-so- unhelpful as to supply me with several `outrageous´ ideas, all of which could get me into serious trouble if they were ever so much as whispered in a rumour, no matter how great a lie they might be.

"It is hardly good manners to be telling lies about other people. How would you feel if people started telling tales about you?"

I wonder how Sparrow manages to give the impression of smiling a little bit wider at every remark I make? "But my dear Commodore James, people are already telling tales about me. Why do you think I go around doing the very same thing myself?"

"So it would not bother you, if, say, hundreds of years from now, someone made up a story about Captain Jack Sparrow with absolutely no foundation in the truth?" I ask, incredulous.

"Ah, but that would actually delight me, my dear Commodore James."

"Even if that story then, by your own logic, became the truth of you?"

"Aye, even then – maybe even especially then. I mean, why would I, more than those storytellers of a time yet to come, know the story of ol´ Captain Jack, eh? It would be rather flattering, truth be told. Who knows, maybe they'd make me out to be a new Robin Hood, eh?"

The thought makes me smile, despite of myself. "I wonder what your motto would be, then: `Take from the rich and spend it all on rum?´"

"Why not? You can never get too much rum."

"And of course your crew would be your merry men."

"Of course. Quite the merry bunch, they are, and that's a fact. And then, of course, I'd have the entire ocean for my Sherwood Forest." The thought seems to please him.

The atmosphere has been considerably lightened by this little Robin Hood- fantasy. Sparrow has begun inspecting apples, weighing them in his hand. Ah, but a dark little thought crosses my mind: "And let me guess," and I guess that the sudden bitterness in my voice is what makes Sparrow look up, dropping the apple he was presently inspecting, "I'll wind up appearing as your very own Sheriff of Nottingham." The thought of being remembered as the villain to Sparrow's hero is far from cheerful – no matter how completely ridiculous the thought actually is.

"I'm afraid that the part of my nemesis was taken near on a decade ago. But don't worry, my dear Commodore James – I'm sure we can find the perfect part for you," and I blink, slightly startled – for the briefest of moments I imagined that Sparrow's voice had once again become a purr, but of course that is ridiculous – almost as ridiculous as the thought of Jack Sparrow as Robin Hood.

Anyway, I am not at all certain what sort of reply would be appropriate, so instead of making one I turn my attention back to my half-eaten dinner (which has gotten quite cold during our discussion). Thankfully Sparrow seems to consider our conversation to be at an end – or at the very least postponed – so once I have eaten my fill I can lean back and wonder about this pirate who juggles as easily with Greek philosophy and tall tales as he is presently doing with four bright green apples – wonder about Jack Sparrow, wonder about who on Earth this strange man is. Of course I have heard the stories, but something tells me that they are mere `shadow- truths´. I wonder about the facts behind them.

Wondering about Sparrow becomes a pastime for me over the course of the next few days – mainly because life at sea is a pretty monotonous thing most of the time and my present voyage is particularly dull thanks to a complete lack of anything to actually do, not to mention the fact that I have a grand total of one potential source of conversation, since Sparrow's crew very obviously do not want to have anything to do with me. So I wonder.

Wondering brings me back to the events in the cave – the kiss and the emerald. Sometimes I think it must have been my imagination playing tricks on me – but the weight of the emerald is undeniable reality. But the kiss then – surely that did not really happen – and I reach to touch my cheek, rough with several days worth of stubble, and no trace is left to confirm anything (and what exactly did I expect? a burn? a scar? a brand?) – but then I start wondering about why on Earth I would imagine Sparrow kissing me, and –that- thought soon banishes all doubts as to the reality of the occurrence. Which still leaves me wondering at the why of it. Probably just Sparrow's way of amusing himself – driving me as mad as he is with this bloody wondering.

Sometimes I try to remove the emerald necklace – I have no desire to wear a `pretty´ piece of jewellery like it, and the fact that actually wearing it has earned me more than one glare from Sparrow's crewmembers (though never when he himself is around to notice) make it an even less desirable state of affairs. Only problem is that reaching the locking mechanism involves nearly strangling myself in the manacles that I am forced to wear, and on the few occasions when I do manage to reach it – well, suffice is to say that I have not exactly had much occasion to try to remove such objects from anyone's neck, and my fumbling usually proves to be in vain. One time I actually manage to get it off and am about to throw it into the waves when Sparrow (appearing from out of nowhere as is his wont) plucks it from my hands only to put it back around my neck. He doesn't say a word, but something about the look in his eyes convinces me to wait until I can be damn sure he is not looking before making another attempt.

One such chance I get (though my fumbling with the lock does not succeed in opening it on that occasion) is the day when Sparrow orders a boat to be put in the water. It is a clear day and all around The Black Pearl the horizon seems endless – and very, very empty. He has the stone chest with the cursed treasure placed in the boat, then chains Barbossa´s corpse (brought along from the island wrapped in a piece of tattered sail and currently making headway towards regaining the appearance that I imagine he must have had whilst cursed) to it – and the dead monkey, too.

Later a very wet Jack Sparrow is standing next to me (almost casually reaching out to adjust the necklace just so) while we watch the rowboat slowly fill with water (and I wonder – could that possibly have anything to do with the hole Sparrow made in it before swimming back to The Pearl?) and sink. "Now they're ol´ Davy´s problem," and he smiles.

I cannot help but wonder, though: "Why chain Barbossa to the chest?"

"Even a mutineering son-of-a-whore like him deserves a burial at sea – he was, after all, a pirate."

"But surely you could simply have thrown him in the sea back at the Isle of the Dead."

"Aye, surely I could," and he turns to look at me, "but then I would have been short one corpse to tie to the chest, now wouldn't I?"

"And what purpose could possibly be served by such a thing?"

"Serves as a warning, Commodore James, in case anybody ever chance upon the treasure again."

I look out on the seemingly endless expanse of water surrounding the ship, then down at the undoubtedly deep water beneath it. Surely Sparrow must be more than ordinarily crazy of he thinks that anybody will ever `chance upon´ anything down there, and I tell him so – diplomatically leaving out the part about him being crazy. He just smiles: "Only a few hundred years ago they would have called you worse things than a madman if you had suggested that there might be a few whole continents just lying about waiting to be discovered across the Atlantic Ocean. A millennia or so ago they would have burned you for a witch if you had had a pistol, or so I'd guess. Who knows what they might be able to do some day, Commodore James? I certainly don't, so I'm not taking any chances, savvy?"

For one time's sake Sparrow's reasons sound more farsighted than crazy (though this might simply be his madness infecting me) – I doubt that I would have thought along those lines – so I settle for a shrug. And then he goes back to his helm and I go back to my wondering (and my occasional attempts to remove the bloody necklace).

At least I do not have to wonder about our present destination, which Sparrow informed me of on the first day out from Isla de Muerta. However, I can honestly say that I am not particularly enthusiastic about paying a visit to the not particularly fair town of Tortuga...


	5. Bloody Stupid Stubborn Naval Officers

We are still two days away from Tortuga when we encounter the first ship – a small, sleek lady that turns tail and flees at the sight of The Black Pearl. That part does not surprise me, though – The Pearl has acquired a certain - reputation during her time under Barbossa´s command.

The surprise comes when Sparrow – who earlier claimed that his precious ship needed an overhaul before resuming her usual `duties´ - gives orders to set all sails and give chase, though that surprise is nothing in comparison to the one I get when The Pearl's crew refrains from actually attacking The Bacardi when they catch up with her. Instead Sparrow has a shouted conversation with her captain – however, seeing as I am standing at the other end of the ship at the time, I cannot hear what is being said, and seeing as Anamaria remains only a few feet away from me, one hand on her pistol, until The Bacardi and The Pearl part company, I really do not have any opportunity to move any closer.

Truth be told, guarding me like that is quite unnecessary given the circumstances. My face is fairly well known to the Caribbean rumrunners and I have no doubt that The Bacardi is one of them. Fleeing from The Black Pearl to such a ship would be a lot like jumping out of the frying pan only to land in the fire. I think I will prefer to turn down that particular offer, thank you very much.

In the end some agreement seems to be reached and an exchange is made: several boxes of apples are put in a boat (along with what looks suspiciously like a leather purse) and rowed over to The Bacardi, where they are replaced with a collection of crates and boxes and barrels. Sparrow bows deeply and smiles winsomely to his fellow captain and the ships part company.

That night the usually eccentric menu of sundry luxury foods that has been part of the hospitality of The Black Pearl so far (and which Sparrow has begun blaming on cursed pirates not stocking _his_ ship properly) is given up in favour of much simpler fare – salt pork, hardtack, pea soup – in short, perfectly ordinary sailor's food. I am somewhat surprised to realize just how much I have actually begun to miss it. You would not think that you could come to almost long for something like tonight's meal (complete with the extra meat that comes automatically during even relatively short voyages), but judging from Sparrow's appetite I am not the only man on board to have grown weary of extravagant food.

The sun rises and sets and rises once more. It is still fairly early in the morning when the outlook shouts "land ho". I, however, cannot climb up into the crow's nest to get a better view, nor am I in possession of a spy- glass – so I must patiently wait a while yet before being able to distinguish the unmistakable shadow on the horizon that shouts "land" to any experienced man of the sea.

Ships, on the other hand, I can see all the time. The Bacardi might be the first vessel we encounter, but she is hardly the last – and the closer we get to Tortuga, the more ships there are – large and small and in- between – each and every one of them making sure to give The Black Pearl a wide berth. One thing strikes me as odd, though: we pass plenty of ships heading out – enough to make a small flotilla – but The Pearl would appear to be the only ship actually heading _for_ the pirate port.

"Commodore Norrington." I turn to see Mr. Gibbs - and sigh. Of course I am not going to be allowed to wander around on deck once The Pearl reaches Tortuga. There would be far too great a chance that I would attempt to flee – in fact, as an officer of His Majesty's Royal Navy I would be more or less obligated to make such an attempt – even if the town of Tortuga is not any likelier than The Bacardi to be positively inclined toward a pirate hunter. Still, I had hoped that they would have waited just a little longer before locking me up in the dark and damp brig – perhaps until we were actually about to drop anchor. I guess not.

I am just about to take the first step down below deck, when Sparrow's voice suddenly sounds: "Oy, Mr. Gibbs, bring the Commodore up here!"

"But ye just said to put him in the brig, Captain," and I do not have to actually see Mr. Gibbs´ face to know that it is wearing a confused expression.

"I know what I said, now do as I say, savvy?" This time I turn around to share a confused look with the sailor-turned-pirate before he simply shrugs and gestures for me to precede him.

Sparrow is standing next to the helm (having left the actual steering of the ship in the hands of Anamaria). When I come close he simply presses a spy-glass into my hands and points: "Look." I wonder what it is that he wants me to see – oh well, only one way to find out, so I put the spy-glass to my eye and turn to look in the appointed direction – and then I find myself lowering it again, blinking in surprise.

"It would appear that your little officers have come looking for you, eh?" and all I reply is "Indeed", because right there in the middle of Tortuga harbour sits The HMS Dauntless, dwarfing what few ships remain there (and incidentally solving the mystery of the departing ships) – I doubt that Tortuga has had such a distinguished visitor since – well, I doubt that the free port has ever had such a distinguished visitor.

"Captain, be ye sure we're to sail into Tortuga with the Navy there and all?" and I do not know about Sparrow, but Mr. Gibbs certainly does not sound too pleased at the prospect.

"Aye, I'm sure," and Sparrow's voice does not waver even a little bit. "Mr. Gibbs, take the helm. Anamaria, my dear," and he whispers something to her that I must admit I do not even attempt to catch – all of my attention is focused on The Dauntless sitting resplendent in the immoral port like a fair maiden surrounded by vile robbers – except this maiden has teeth of her own. I suppose someone – Lt. Gillette? Lt. Groves? – must have guessed that The Black Pearl would head for Tortuga sooner or later, just like every other pirate ship to ever sail on the Caribbean Sea. But the rush of excitement I felt when first I saw the ship is quickly fading as I slowly come to the realization that finding The Pearl is not the real challenge – in fact, did Sparrow not more or less count on it happening? What was it he said? "They won't do anything stupid as long as your fine self is enjoying the hospitality of The Black Pearl."

"Oh do cheer up, Commodore James," Sparrow says as he plucks the spy- glass from my grasp to have another look for himself. "You should be pleased with this little turn of events. Now you're going to get to stay on deck a tad longer, so you can wave to all your little friends, eh?" Ah yes, of course – what would be the value of a hostage if you do not make it very clear that you have him?

I find that I cannot hold back a sigh at the thought of the upcoming meeting – whatever form it might end up taking then I am quite sure that I will be thoroughly humiliated – though it is hard to imagine what exactly it would require to make the situation any worse after Sparrow's embarrassing abduction of me – no, I am _really_ not looking forward to this meeting.

"Hmmm," and I am suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fact that Sparrow is staring intently at me. -Now- what does he want?

"There's something missing in this picture," and he leans his head to one side and twirls a chin-braid – considering. Missing? There is absolutely nothing missing – even the blasted emerald is in place.

The sound of beating wings and the parrot lands on the railing next to us. It cocks its head in a perfect parody of Sparrow and looks at me with one beady eye. "Aargh, clap him in irons!" Sparrow sends first the bird, then me a thoughtful look – then his lips slowly curl into a smile. "Aye."

When he wants to Sparrow can move as swiftly as any snake – he proved that once on the docks of Port Royal when he seized Eli- Miss Swann, then again when he pulled me off the ramparts – and now he proves it yet again. All I have time to register is the jingling sound of the silver trinkets in his hair and the touch of calloused, beringed fingers – and somehow I am suddenly standing with my hands chained -behind- my back.

I try to pull my hands loose – in vain, of course, but I cannot help myself. I twist around to get a look at my hands, then glare angrily at Sparrow – how dare he? How dare he stand there, smiling and saying "perfect"? What is this game of his?

"Is there any particular reason why you did that?" I ask, trying to sound exasperated.

"Oh aye," and I am treated to the sight of all of his gold teeth. I wait a moment, hoping for an elaboration. None would appear to be forthcoming.

"Care to share that reason with me?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I just thought it´d make you look a little more like a proper captive, Commodore James." `Proper captive´? The man is crazy, but of course that –has- already been established. I sigh, giving up on the discussion before it can get started – it is not like I ever seem to win an argument with my captor anyway, so why even waste my breath? Instead I turn to gaze at Tortuga and The Dauntless, still too far away to reveal any details to the naked eye.

Suddenly there are hands on my shoulders, pressing down. "Why don't you sit down for a bit, Commodore James?" The pressure is far from enough to actually force me down – it would not have been enough when I was weakened by the cold, and it is certainly not enough now that I have fully recovered from it.

"If it is all the same to you, Captain Sparrow, then I would rather stand," and suiting word to deed I remain on my feet – until Sparrow trips me and I tumble down on the deck to the sound of him saying "actually, my dear Commodore James, it's not all the same to me."

I sigh and try to get into a comfortable position – not an easy feat when your arms are chained behind your back – and somehow end up with my back leaning against the railing. I send Sparrow another angry glare, but he is not even looking at me – instead he seems to be very interested - and amused by – in whatever he is seeing through the spy-glass – at least he is smiling widely. I suppose I could yell at him – partly to wipe that irritating smile off his face – but that would probably just end with me being gagged _again_ and that is not an experience that I would ever care to repeat. Besides, I want to be able to speak if there is to be some form of meeting with my officers – even if I am presently unsure of what exactly I might have to say to them – and the last thing I need is for Sparrow to decide that a `proper captive´ should be gagged or blindfolded – or both. No, far better to be quiet now and remain as dignified as I can manage.

I lean back as best I can and close my eyes, and for a while I simply sit and listen – listen to the creaking of the ship beneath me, to the sound of crashing waves, to the noise the pirates make. I loose track of time, then Sparrow's voice pulls me back to the here-and-now: "Seems like there's going to be a formal reception committee for us, Commodore James."

I open my eyes, but decide against trying to get to my feet – even if I were to somehow manage it, then I have no doubt that Sparrow would push me back down. Instead I ask a question, resignedly: "What is your plan, Captain Sparrow?"

He gazes down on me with an undecipherable look in those dark eyes. Faintly I wonder what he is seeing. "Oh, it's not really an actual plan as such, my dear Commodore James – more like an assortment of good ideas. Anyway, if everything works out, then your little officers are going to be sent off to bed without any supper."

Why can the thrice-damned pirate never be straight about anything? With a sigh I refrain from asking for clarification – whatever Sparrow's plan is (and I have no doubt that he has one worked out – complete with a contingency plan or four if the first should fail him – no matter what he claims) then I will know soon enough.

Leaning back against the railing I look up to see ebony sails against a cerulean sky, then close my eyes to once again listen to the noises of the ship – and to wonder, somewhat nervously, about the upcoming encounter. I wonder what my officers are thinking about me – the proud Commodore James L. Norrington – being captured by a man whom I have shown so little respect. I wonder if they are laughing at me, amused at the thought of how it makes me look. The thought is not a pleasant one.

And speaking of looks – as the noises from both The Pearl and her crew change into those that immediately precede a docking, I suddenly grow very aware of the weight of the emerald hanging far too visibly around my neck. Dear God, what will my officers make of that? A hostage wearing what is obviously a part of the pirate treasure, what kind of ideas will that give them? - and my mind is once again so unhelpful as to supply several possibilities, each worse than the other. And if the mere rumour of – say – Commodore Norrington having received a gift – or a bribe – from a pirate got out, it could ruin my reputation – not to mention my career. I want to get the damned bauble off, but with my hands behind my back I cannot make the attempt – I cannot even try to hide it by stuffing it under my shirt. It is an unpleasant thing to realize that the only way to get the bloody stone out of the way is to ask for Sparrow's assistance. And who knows – maybe he gave it to me with the express purpose of ruining my reputation like this – I would not put such a devious plan past him, pirate that he is. Even if the thought has not occurred to him, then it surely will if I ask – and why should he not seize every opportunity to humiliate me?

Even so, I am in the process of swallowing my pride to ask anyway, when Sparrow suddenly crouches down in front of me. Fingers brush against skin, and next thing I see is the emerald disappearing down into one of Sparrow's pockets. "I'll just be holding on to this for you for a bit, eh, Commodore James? Wouldn't be wanting your little officers to get any funny ideas, now would we?" A wink and he is gone, leaving me utterly confused – but at least without the bloody pendant. Now, if I can only avoid having it returned to me later – but that really is a concern for later.

I glance up at Sparrow who notice and sends me one of his dazzling golden smiles – then suddenly his expression transforms into a scowl. For a brief moment this confuses me, but then I realize that we must be close enough for my officers to be able to see him. I wish I could see them, but in my present position that is unfortunately not an option, so I settle for watching Sparrow, hoping that his behaviour might reveal something – anything – though I am not sure what.

I have never really noticed how terrifying Sparrow is capable of appearing. Gone is the somewhat ridiculous man I first met on the docks of Port Royal, gone is the trickster with a golden grin for everyone, gone is my ever-cheerful and eccentric dinner companion of these last few days – before me stands a pirate. Perhaps it is the hat and coat adding a little bit extra to his slender frame, perhaps it is the sword ("my sword" a small voice grumbles in my mind) and the pistol (which only God knows where he has found – I know for a fact that his old weapons were left in the Port Royal prison) that adds an air of menace, perhaps it is his stance or simply the odd look in his eyes – slightly akin to cold fire. Perhaps it is all of the above. But the most frightening aspect of this transformation of Sparrow's is that I find myself quite unable to tell whether this is a mask he has conveniently put on, or if it is rather that he has removed the mask and only now stands before me as he truly is.

Thankfully, a voice interrupts my musing, "Ahoy, The Pearl," and by the loudness of it and the actions of The Pearl's crew I realize that we are now right next to the docks – in fact, it would appear that we are in the process of dropping anchor and tying the ship to the dock. What kind of game are you playing, Sparrow? I wonder, as the man steps to the railing (right next to me, in fact), coming into plain sight of whoever is standing down on the dock.

"Sparrow, you villain, what have you done with Commodore Norrington?" Ah Gillette, straight to the point as usual – God have mercy on England if that man ever joins the diplomatic service.

Craning my neck I can see Sparrow smile – a smile that looks like it would fit better on a shark. "What have _I_ done with the good Commodore? Why, not a whole lot, I'm afraid."

"Sparrow, I swear, if you have killed him..."

"Manners, _Lieutenant_ , mind your manners – it's _Captain_ Sparrow, savvy? And as a matter of fact I have _not_ killed your precious Commodore – as a matter of fact I have him right here!" His last words are accompanied by a series of movements which I am not entirely able to distinguish – mainly due to the fact that I am an integral part of them, being hauled to my feet and whirled around and suddenly finding myself standing halfway in front of Sparrow (who has a firm grasp on the manacles with one hand and holds a pistol (and when exactly did he draw that?) to my head with the other, the cold metal of the barrel tickling my chin).

My change in positions finally allows me to see the people standing on the dock – Lt. Gillette, Lt. Groves and a company of marines with muskets pointing up at Sparrow and – well – at me (though they are hurriedly lowered upon my appearance). It also allows them to see me – I wonder what they make of my rather sudden appearance. And speaking of appearances, I wonder how I appear to them – manacled, dressed in clothes that by now are many days overdue for a wash, my hair unkempt and my face halfway hidden under several days worth of stubble. Yet no bruising, no half-healed wounds, in fact no signs of abuse or mistreatment or – on my part – resistance at all. Surely a pitiful sight.

Lt. Groves is the first person to find his voice: "Sir, are you all right?" He actually sounds concerned.

"As well as can be expected given the circumstances, Lt." Then the pistol slides up to press lightly against my lips. I wonder, is Sparrow regretting not gagging me?

Now Gillette has also found his voice, and his shout is far from friendly: "Sparrow, you will release Commodore Norrington right this instant!" Oh Gillette, surely you do not expect him to actually obey such an order?

"Do you think me a fool, _Lieutenant_ Gillette? Seeing as how you expect me to let my fine hostage go so your little marines can start firing at me and my ship? Well, I'm not and I won't, savvy?"

Gillette is about to shout something new when Groves pulls at his sleeve and starts speaking urgently to him. Now Groves, he would make a fine negotiator, but unfortunately Gillette is the highest ranking of the pair, having been a lieutenant for about four years longer than Groves – still, maybe if he listens to him...

"Captain Sparrow, let Commodore Norrington go and you have my word that you will be allowed to weigh anchor and leave Tortuga unhindered," Gillette shouts in his most ingratiating voice (which – sadly – sounds horribly false, but at least he is making an attempt).

"Better, Lieutenant, better, but still not good enough. See, as soon as your precious Commodore here" – a yank on the manacles as if to add weight to his words – "are no longer my very own captive, then he's in command and your word's worthless. `Sides, I've got business in Tortuga, savvy?"

Once again Gillette and Groves put their heads together. In the meantime the thought occurs to me that all I have to do is tear loose from Sparrow and somehow get over the railing – then I will be free and my reputation might even escape complete ruin – whether I will break every bone in my body when I actually hit the dock it an entirely different (and much less important) matter. So I try to pull free, but at exactly the same time Sparrow also pulls, very nearly making me fall, and – keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear it – he hisses "stop that." Then he raises his voice to interrupt my officers´ discussion.

"How say you fine gentlemen to this little idea: You take your men and yourselves and go back to your little ship, then sail away and make sure I don't see as much as a topsail of you again, then I'll let you know when and where you can have your Commodore back – once I'm done with him, that is."

"That's completely unacceptable!" I quite concur.

"Oh it is, is it? Well, too bad, because I just happen to find it perfectly acceptable. `Sides, if you want your precious Commodore back in one piece, you really don't have much of a choice, mates." The pistol glides up my cheek to my temple and I hear a faint click. Oh God.

"You wouldn't kill the Commodore, Sparrow! You wouldn't get out of here alive if you did!" And now I know what contempt mixed with panic sounds like – I would not have minded never knowing that. Gillette, has nobody ever told you not to argue with hostage-takers – and especially not with crazy hostage-taking pirate captains holding your superiors at gunpoint?

"True enough. But who said anything about killing the good Commodore?" and I find myself being whirled around and swiftly marched down the steps to the main deck.

"What do you think you are doing?" I manage, while trying to keep from tripping over my own feet.

"No need to worry your pretty head, Commodore James. You just do ol´ Jack a favour and scream when appropriate, then you won't have to worry about a thing, savvy?" Scream? What the Hell is Sparrow up to?

"Anamaria!" he shouts, and then I am marched up to the mainmast. The sound of rattling keys and the feeling of someone pulling at my arms – and now the manacles are once again in front of me. In fact, they are now on the other side of the mast – caught on a hook that nearly forces me to stand on my toes. I feel hands tearing off my shirt – and then I hear the crack of a whip.

Sparrow must have seen my confusion (and – yes – my fear), because he squeezes my shoulder and leans in to whisper: "Just pretend, eh, then you'll be just fine." Then he is moving back to the railing and all I manage to say is: "If you think I..." The rest is lost before reaching my tongue – not much point in saying the words when nobody is listening.

I manage to look over my shoulder to see Anamaria standing with a whip in her hands, looking far too pleased with the situation for my liking. So this is Sparrow's plan – to deceive my officers. And he is obviously expecting me to help him do so. He must crazier than I thought if he thinks that I will have any part in this. Well, he is in for a disappointment, that's for certain.

I can no longer hear the words spoken or see Groves and Gillette (nor can they see me, for that matter). I _can_ see Sparrow – I see him raise a hand at some point during the discussion, then drop it.

A whip cracks.

I do not scream.

I simply refuse to help the scoundrel in any way.

Sparrow turns to look at me, his expression unreadable. Then he looks past me – at Anamaria, I presume – tosses his head, then turns his back on me again. I expect someone to come over and release me from the awkward position, but nothing of the sort happens. Surely Sparrow cannot have any practical reason to keep me chained to the mast once I have called his bluff? Then he raises his hand again – and suddenly I know with a cold certainty that it is no longer a bluff.

The hand drops.

As a young midshipman I and a couple of others once managed to get ourselves gloriously drunk while on watch. Fortunately we were at the time in a friendly port, so nothing bad happened as a result of our improper behaviour. But exactly because we had been in port for quite some time the crew had been growing restless, and our captain decided to make an example of us. That was the first time I ever tasted the lash, and I promised myself it would also be the last time. Until today I have kept that promise.

The whip cracks.

I scream.

What more is there to say?

Sparrow does not even turn to look at me this time, just continues his negotiations. I try to guess how they are going, but it is hard when my only clue is Sparrow's hand being raised and sometimes slowly lowered, sometimes dropped (crack).

At some point Lt. Groves actually comes aboard, accompanied by Mr. Murtogg and Mr. Mullroy carrying a sea chest between them. I am still too far away to actually hear any words, (though some are clearly spoken) but I see Lt. Groves give something to Sparrow, who favours him with one of his most dazzling smiles. Groves sends me a deeply worried look before practically being chased off the ship accompanied by the two marines (leaving the sea chest (which looks suspiciously like mine) standing on the deck until a couple of pirates haul it into the captain's cabin).

After that the whip is not used again. In fact – even though I look around as best I can – Anamaria would appear to have disappeared.

One would expect someone to come and free me, but nobody does. I stand chained to the mast while the pirates aboard The Black Pearl go about their business. I stand chained to the mast as I see The Dauntless set sail and leave Tortuga – humiliated. I stand chained to the mast and Sparrow never as much as looks at me.

I have never truly appreciated the importance of having a hat before – now I would pay dearly for one, but no hat nor even the black sails of The Pearl (which have been taken down now that she lies at anchor) offers me any protection from the hot Caribbean sun, beating down on me like a great whip of fire. My mouth dries out, but nobody offers me even a sip of water. Flies buzzes around me, parading on my sweaty shoulders and further down, but I cannot wave them away. At some point my legs give up, buckling under me, and I find myself putting all my weight on the hook on the mast. Soon my shoulders begin to hurt. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the mast, loosing all track of time.

"Drink." Cold water passes my lips, a delight for my parched throat. I open my eyes, blinking. How long have I stood here? Judging by the sun dipping under the horizon I would have to say most of a day.

I collapse on the deck to the sound of rattling keys, the support of the mast all too suddenly lost. Sparrow somehow manages to get me back up – I will never know how, for the heat has drained me of all my strength and I feel terribly heavy and sluggish – and half-carries, half-drags me into the blessed shade of his cabin, then allows me to collapse again, but this time onto a surprisingly soft bed. I feel him sit down on the edge of it. For a while there is silence.

At some point Sparrow gets up and starts rummaging, lighting candles to hold back the growing darkness. I hear him mumbling something that sounds a lot like "bloody stupid stubborn naval officers." Then he returns to the bed.

"Any particular reason why you didn't do what I told you to, Commodore James?" he asks, his voice completely bland. "Or is this stubbornness simply something you Navy boys get automatically – something that comes along with the uniform, maybe?"

"Did you really think that I would allow you to ruin me completely by making me make a fool out of myself like that?"

"So that's what I was doing! Funny, I could have sworn that I was trying to make those officers of yours go away without -anybody- getting hurt in the process. My mistake." My face pressing against a pillow prevents me from seeing the shrug I am certain he just made.

"And if your little game was ever revealed it would ruin my career – not that there is much of it left to ruin by now." I surprise myself by not even having the energy to get really angry at Sparrow. If anything I feel – resigned.

"What'd you mean, ruin? You brought the evilest pirates the Caribbean has ever seen to justice, you saved the lady fair, you just kept from screaming the first time the wicked pirate's whip hit you! If anything they'll give you a bloody medal!"

"I have just lost a ship which had been placed under my command less than a month before this unfortunate affair started. I have lost the lives of several good men without capturing or sinking the pirate ship they were supposed to be fighting. I have had a pirate literally escape out of the hangman's noose and even allowed myself to be kidnapped by him. No, Sparrow, I will be lucky if they -only- relieve me of my command."

"Nonsense. Those fine gentlemen of the Admiralty won't have forgotten all those poor pirates you've dealt with over the last few years. `Sides, you just wait and see, you'll probably come out of this little ordeal as a grand hero. Now, drink some of this," and a bottle of rum is held close to my mouth. I shake my head.

"Suit yourself," and then Sparrow pours a generous helping of the devil's drink out on my poor back. I am not sure how I manage to refrain from letting out a scream – lack of energy, most likely. All I can do is hiss as the alcohol burns painfully in the wounds left behind by the whip.

"If anybody's going to get into trouble because of what happened today," he continues, "it's most likely going to be me. Lizzie´s going to skin me alive or something when she sees what I've done to your back. Women - they're so particular about pirates flogging their husbands-to-be."

"Sparrow, will you kindly stop talking as though I am going to be married to Miss Swann. Surely her gesture up on the ramparts was not lost on you?"

"Ah, but I seem to remember the lady accepting your proposal, mate. If you _really_ want her, then – from what I've seen of dear Lizzie – she would be a woman of her word, as it were."

"And what kind of a man would insist on something like that? What kind of a man do you think I am?" and I am not sure why this means enough to me that I try to turn around and look at Sparrow, who pushes me back down before I manage so to do. He does not answer, though, which is odd – I am not sure if I have ever experienced Sparrow not having an answer ready.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Sparrow pick up a small metal jar and then a scent of herbs fills the cabin, overpowering even Sparrow's eternal rum-smell.

"What is that?"

"Something that pretty young lieutenant of yours gave me. So much more polite than that Gillette, he was. Practically begged me to make sure your injuries were properly tended."

"British officers do not beg, Captain Sparrow." That would probably have sounded more convincing if he had not begun applying the ointment to my back just then – a pleasant cool feeling that almost makes me moan.

"Well, maybe not with his words, but his eyes. I'm telling you, Commodore James, that lad's got a bad case of hero-worship when it comes to you. After today it will probably be even worse. No real cure for those things, you see."

"Surely you do not think that I will allow myself to profit in any way from your deception?"

"Why not? Who would it hurt? Who would ever even know that the first whiplash didn't actually hit? It would be your very own shadow-truth and nobody would ever be the wiser."

"But I would know." Is honour truly such an alien concept to this man?

For a bit the only sounds are our breathing – in, out, in, out – and the jingling of the trinkets in Sparrow's braids. Then he clears his voice: "Speaking of that fine young lieutenant of yours, I asked him how things were going back in Port Royal. Interested?"

I do not answer – not in words, but a lack of a direct `no´ seems to always be interpreted as a `yes´ by this pirate, so he continues: "Seems our young Mr. Turner has gotten himself into a spot of trouble."

"Oh?" is all I can muster. God, but I am weary.

"Aye. Seems helping a pirate escape is not considered acceptable behaviour, especially not when the pirate absconds with the Commodore, so they put him in prison. Of course, since you're not there to decide his fate, he's just going to stay there for now. I'm sure he won't suffer. The future Mrs. – dear Lizzie will see to that."

I fully expect him to ask me what I intend to do about the young blacksmith (maybe even try to make me promise to release the boy) – and truth be told I find myself honestly hoping that I can think of some pretext for not punishing Mr. Turner's far too rash actions – but the question never comes. In fact Sparrow seems to have said what he wanted to say for tonight, or maybe he can tell that I am tired and not really paying much attention anymore.

I am already half asleep when strong arms pull me up into a sitting position so that clean cloth can be wound around my body as a bandage (and a coolness against my chest and a heaviness around my neck tells me that the emerald has been returned – I suppose I really ought to be objecting to that). Then I am lowered back down on the bed by those surprisingly gentle arms (and I hear the sound of my right arm being chained to a bedpost – I guess I ought to be objecting to that as well), then covered with a warm blanket.

I find myself in the no-man's-land between waking and true sleep, swiftly moving towards the latter. In fact, I think I must already be there, because now I hear words that have no place anywhere but in dreams.

"What kind of a man do I think you are, James? I think you're a fine man, and a good one too – just a tad too busy looking at the black and white to see all the lovely shades of grey. I also think that Lizzie has absolutely no idea what she's turned down. I somehow doubt even you have any idea. I think she was a bloody fool to do so, mate. Now me, on the other hand, I'm no fool. What I _am_ is a pirate, and pirates aren't in the habit of leaving pretty treasures to mind their own business, savvy?"

Oh yes, a dream it must be, for surely nobody – and least of all my crazy pirate captor – would speak to me like that in the real, waking world. Still, despite of their lack of reality (or more likely because of it) there is something rather – comforting – about those words.

Still, it is just a dream.

Right?


	6. Quiet and Calm or Sound and Fury

I wake up to the noise of a door being slammed. Momentarily I am confused – where am I? Have I somehow been returned to my own house and my own bed during the night? Was it all just a dream – a nightmare? – but then I wake up a bit more, notice that my right arm is manacled to a bedpost, and events from the previous day slowly begin to come back to me.

The sunlight spilling in through the windows reveals that I am all alone in the cabin (though a still warm depression on the other side of the bed would seem to indicate that this is quite a recent development – and the lingering smell of rum leaves precious little doubt as to the identity of my bed companion of the bygone night).

I try to sit up and stretch and the movements make my back hurt – bringing back even more memories from the day before. That blasted Sparrow! That villain, that blackguard, that scoundrel, that knave, that – that _pirate_! How dared he? It takes a little while for my mind to work its way through all the less-than-flattering words it can think of to describe Jack Sparrow.

When I finally manage to get into an acceptable seated position I take another look at the cabin - it is definitely devoid of other people. Then I notice what would appear to be a bowl filled with pieces of fruit, a clay jug filled with what I at first assume must be water and a mug – all set on a tray and the tray is placed on the floor right next to the bed, within easy reach. Of course my stomach chooses that moment to remind me that I have not had anything to eat since the previous morn.

I somehow manage to get into a comfortable position facing the door, place the bowl in my lap and begin to eat. The fruit is delicious and quite fresh, and the water´ turns out to be some form of lemonade – rather a nice change, really.

While I eat, I never once take my eyes off the cabin door. With every bite of fruit I swallow – banana and mango and orange and grape –, with every sip of juice I take, I think of another complaint, another angry word, another insult – the moment Sparrow steps through that door I am going to tell him exactly what I think of him and his so-called hospitality´.

As I eat I can hear him through the door – his tone of voice is imperious, though the actual words are lost – partly due to the noise coming from the deck – the noise of a ship's crew hard at work. Still, I expect he will come in at some point and check up on his prisoner.

While I wait I study the cabin as best I can from my position. Most of it I have seen during my previous visits, but right where I am now was always shielded by draperies. This means that I can actually be surprised by the rather extravagant bed I find myself in – large enough for three or four people and with bedposts decorated with carvings of various creatures of the sea – turtles, octopi, sharks, dolphins, fish, as well as more fantastic specimens. A sea serpent is twisting its way up one bedpost, while on another a mermaid is busy combing her hair. Elsewhere an odd creature that looks like a tentacled monk can be spotted, and on the bedpost to which I am manacled is a depiction of some form of whale or fish, its head terminating in a long spiral horn akin to that of a unicorn. Something tells me that this bed was hardly brought on board by the cursed Captain Barbossa. Rather I could well imagine that it would have been something acquired by Sparrow himself during his previous captaincy aboard The Pearl – as pointless and extravagant and luxurious as the man himself.

Running out of carvings to notice and with no sign of Sparrow as of yet I turn to look out of the cabin's windows – The Pearl lies so that I am treated to a fine view of Tortuga´s harbour. It surprises me somewhat how ordinary the free port appears in daylight – not so very different than so many other Caribbean ports (if you disregard the unusually high number of eccentrically dressed people). People go about their business - sailors loading and unloading their ships (hordes of curious children their avid audience), small fisher boats bringing in their catch, harbour officials in fancy clothes moving to and fro – just like everywhere else. Is this really Tortuga – pirate capital of the Spanish Main?

It is as I watch the harbour life that I catch my first glimpse of Sparrow – driving an empty donkey cart into the town proper accompanied by a couple of his crewmen. Later the cart returns – without Sparrow. The load it brings back – an odd assortment of crates and sea chests, boxes and canvas bags – is moved into the captain's cabin by pirates who pointedly ignore me (and vice versa). Truth be told I do not overtly mind – Sparrow's absence gives me time to refine the bit of my mind that I am going to give him when he does show up – by nightfall, unless I mistake my guess.

But when the door finally opens – close to sunset – it is the elderly pirate to whom the parrot belongs that enters, a tray in his hands. I ask him where Sparrow is. No reply. I ask him when he is expected back. No reply. I ask him (and I am beginning to sound angry) if there is any particular reason why he refuses to answer my questions. He turns to face me and opens his mouth – and I realise the absolute pointlessness of asking this particular pirate any questions, so I settle for thanking him for bringing me my supper. He nods, graciously, then leaves me to dig into a bowlful of spiced stew (taking away with him a bucket left for – necessities – and leaving another one behind).

As night falls the real Tortuga awakens – the sound of gunshots, drunken singing and general merry-making of the basest kind reaches me quite clearly across the water. I must have been truly exhausted last night to not only have slept in that noise, but to have not as much as noticed it. Tonight it is quite late before sleep comes, and when it does it is fitful and haunted by dreams forgotten upon waking, but which leaves behind feelings of – apprehension? Confusion? What?

Morning brings an end to most of the noisy night-time activities of Tortuga. It does not bring Sparrow. Oh well, considering what kind of man he is I suppose he would have little interest in returning to sleep aboard The Pearl when his pockets are lined with gold from La Isla de Muerta – gold that will have assured him a warm welcome in any one of Tortuga´s numerous houses of ill repute – that is if he did not manage to get himself too drunk to enjoy such carnal amusements and spent the night passed out on the floor of some tavern – or possibly in the gutter. Anyway, he will probably show up sometime later today. It is quite alright with me, really – it gives me more time to work out exactly what I am going to tell him when he does show.

Only – he does not. In fact, today is even less eventful than yesterday. The mute pirate brings me breakfast. Many hours later he brings me dinner. In between meals all I can do is look at the Tortugan harbour life – and think. Think about my probably ruined career, think about my officers (and what they might possibly be thinking of me – and where did they sail to, I wonder?), think about my lost wife-to-be and about sundry similarly depressing things – oh, and about Sparrow, of course. (Did he say something to me that night? Just before I fell asleep? No – it must have been a dream – even Sparrow's madness must have its bounds.) I seem to be spending quite a lot of time lately thinking – wondering – about Sparrow. It is hardly surprising given the circumstances – still, the fact that the crazy scoundrel has been so very much on my mind lately is vaguely disconcerting – certainly disconcerting enough to make me look for something to do to distract me from the thought – alas, the only thing I can come up with is changing my position, and since the manacles are seriously impeding my freedom of movement I soon give up on that idea.

Damn that Sparrow! It crosses my mind that if -he- was in a similar position he would probably already have been free from the manacles and long gone – me, on the other hand, I stay right where he put me, and it is annoying – or possibly infuriating – or maybe both at once.

My attempted moving around has once again made me aware of the emerald around my neck – surely now with one hand loose it should be easy to get the blasted trinket off. Yet I refrain from even trying – with my present luck I would probably get another whipping if I succeeded in getting it off and throwing it out of the currently closed windows – if I can even manage to throw it that far, considering that my throwing arm is currently less than free.

Again the sun sets, again Tortuga wakes up. This night brings even less rest than the previous one. Every time I fall asleep I wake up again almost immediately either because I have managed to roll over on my back in my sleep or because the manacles have somehow gotten tangled – and every time I wake up, the strange dreams slip away from me – though tonight I manage to hold on to drops of them: the light reflected in a perfect emerald, a golden smile (or is it a leer?), the smell of rum, the strange words I dreamt the first night I spent in this bed. They leave me confused upon every awakening, then return to haunt me when next I fall asleep. Is it any wonder that morning finds me in an unusually foul mood?

When the mute pirate brings me my breakfast it is only years and years of ingrained good manners that prevent me from yelling angrily at the man – that and the pointlessness of it all. As it is, I grumble "thank you" and prepare myself to spend yet another lonely day in the cabin.

At some point my back begins to – not hurt, no (it has been hurting whenever I make sudden or – wrong – movements ever since the first touch of the whip) – it begins to itch – the most infernal, irritating itch I ever did feel. I do not know the cause of it – whether it is the ointment Sparrow put on my back or the healing process itself (or maybe some kind of vermin from the bed (though if that is the case, why are they only now making themselves known?)). All I know is that it is itching and that I – due to manacles and bandages and general poor reach – cannot get to scratch at it.

This latest insult of Sparrow's (whether he is here or not is irrelevant – he is clearly the cause of it!) makes me feel miserable – and that in turn awakens my anger, hot and glowing like the coal in a blacksmith's forge. Seeking a means to vent that anger I turn to my list of complaints and insults, which I put aside sometime yesterday, feeling that it could not be improved upon further. Now I replace cold, caustic words with red-hot ones, turn cool complaints into acidic accusations, intelligently worded insults into damnations – in short I turn it into something to match my mood (which worsens by the second).

I suppose it could be considered ironic that when the door final opens – late in the afternoon – to admit one slightly swaying, humming Jack Sparrow, I do not say one word of my re-perfected tirade (or anything else, for that matter). I just look – or rather glare – at the pirate, my power of speech mysteriously gone, and my anger seems to grow even hotter trapped behind my closed lips.

"So there you are, Commodore James! I was beginning to wonder where you'd gotten to." His face is a study in false surprise, his voice altogether to bloody cheerful for my liking.

"And where exactly did you imagine that I might have gone?" I ask, rattling my chain. My words and voice are cold as ice, but the edges are steaming. I wonder if he notices.

"Oh, you never know, now do you? What with you Navy fellows being such clever types and all, eh?" An impudent grin accompanies impudent words – is this _amusing_ to him?

"Indeed. Quite unlike such as yourself." Cold. Not sarcastic. I do not think I intended it to sound sarcastic. Sparrow certainly does not seem to react as though it did.

"And what's that supposed to mean, my dear Commodore James?" Is that a hint of something dangerous in Sparrow's eyes? In his voice?

"It is supposed to mean that you are absolutely without the slightest doubt the _worst_ pirate I have _ever_ seen."

"Oh really?" Definitely something dangerous.

"Indeed," and I realize that it is probably not wise to say such things in my current situation, but somehow I cannot stop myself – and I am not entirely sure that I would do so if I could.

"Well then, I suppose that means you can't be very much of a Commodore either, eh? Seeing as how I always seem to be absconding with your pretty things – your ship, yourself..."

"How dare you speak to me like that, you blackguard?"

"Well, how dare you talk to your very own host like that?"

"I really do not give much for your hospitality´, Sparrow – not when it involves having your guests flogged!"

"As opposed to your own hospitality´, mate? I still have the rope burns to remember it by."

"The only hospitality´ you deserve, -pirate-, is a short drop and a sudden stop!"

It just gets worse from there. Ugly words hurled in each other's faces. It is like a vicious circle – every last one of my words are steam and smoke from a fire of anger and every last one of Sparrow's simply fuels it. I do not know how long it lasts – how much time we spend trading insults like that.

Sparrow does not shout. He hisses and sneers and practically growls at times, but he never once raises his voice in a shout.

I shout. I cannot seem to stop myself. It feels like I am standing outside of myself, helpless to prevent this madness – the madness of arguing with a man who might kill me at any time – on a whim.

Part of me is surprised that the noise that we (well, mainly I) are making does not make the other pirates come running.

And a tiny part of me is staring at Sparrow and realizing that I have apparently finally managed to anger the man – and something about that fact scares me.

"You kidnap me. You humiliate me," I am saying as I once again grow aware of my own words. Later, if someone is going to ask exactly what words were spoken today, I somehow sincerely doubt that I will be able to tell them – I cannot even seem to remember the words spoken just prior to these, let alone the whole conversation.

"Haven't we had this talk before?"

"No. You talked! I had that filthy rag of yours in my mouth."

"Now there's an idea." He takes a step forward, raising his hands to the bandanna.

"Don't you dare touch me, Sparrow. Have you not done enough as it is?" and I move as far backwards as the manacles will allow.

"Oh, and what have _I_ done, Mr. clap-him-in-irons?"

"You! Whipped! Me!"

"AND YOU BLOODY WELL TRIED TO HANG ME! I´D SAY WE´RE BLOODY WELL SQUARE, YOU BLOODY NAVAL FOOL!" Sparrow roars at me, raising his voice at long last, but the uncommonly loud sound merely fuels my anger further, making me raise my voice even more.

"HOW! DARE! YOU!..."

"Mew."

I have no idea what I was going to shout at Sparrow just now. However, I have little doubt that it will not end well for me if the argument continues. That tiny sound, so completely out of place, gives the part of me that has been wanting to stop this a chance to step in and forcibly shut me up. Strangely enough it feels like an incredibly relief.

Sparrow has apparently also been somewhat calmed by the sound. At least his voice is back to normal as he speaks: "Now look what you've done, you daft fool. You've gone and woken up me newest crewmembers."

"What?" and my voice and my face both mirror my confusion. Crewmembers?

"Aye." He digs into one of his coat's deep pockets and extracts first one, then another tiny specimen of the feline species. One is striped in silver and black, the other reddish-orange. Both are stirring, yawning, as if just awakened from slumber. "Ship's cats."

The sight of Sparrow with a large kitten in each hand (and the silver one is already sufficiently awake to have made up its mind that Sparrow's ever-dancing braids would make ideal prey for a small cat and is preparing itself to act accordingly) all of the sudden makes me want to laugh – it is such a ridiculous sight – but I dare not. God knows how the man would react if I began laughing at him just now. Best not to take any chances – I really do not want to give him cause to summon Anamaria (and her whip) again.

For a little while Sparrow stands and I sit, neither of us breaking the silence. Then a pouncing kitten manages to drag him back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. A brief glare at the tiny offender, then he unloads both animals – squarely in my lap.

"Here, you hold em. And turn around."

"What are you...?"

"I'm gonna check your back, which is more than you deserve, you naval fool. Now shut up, turn round and keep pretending to have a bloody mainmast up your bloody arse, savvy?" I comply.

With my back turned I hear Sparrow rummaging. Then I tense as I feel him settle down behind me on the bed, fully expecting him to be rough about this, to ignore the fact that this is a rather painful injury he is tending - I am not even sure I would blame him for such treatment after our argument – so I must admit to feeling surprised when his touch as he starts to remove the bandages is as gentle as ever.

The feeling of air against half-healed skin, then calloused fingertips gliding over it. "How is it?" I cannot stop myself from asking.

"Coming along fine. Now shut up!"

I do not know what I expect him to do next – it certainly is not to begin cleaning my itching back with a wet rag. Oh, but that feels good – a considerable part of the itch must have been caused by the salve having dried. The urge to lean back and moan is tempting, very tempting, but also quite unbecoming, not to mention probably very foolish considering the circumstances, and I successfully deny it.

The silence is worrying me, however. If not for the touches and the slow steady sound of another man's breathing I would think myself alone. Now, usually you cannot get Sparrow to stop talking – you would think the man was in love with the sound of his own voice the way Narcissus was in love with his own reflection. When he cleaned the now almost healed cut on my hand on the first day he kept up a running commentary. Today he is silent as the grave. This bothers me quite a lot, I realize. Some of it probably comes from the fact that it is unwise to have your captor sufficiently angry at you to be willing to wring your neck. Some of it, but not all – though I am honestly not sure were the rest is coming from.

Whatever the reason might be for my apprehension I realize that it is quite valid. My captivity has so far been bearable (discounting the whipping) – but who knows what might happen if Sparrow's anger lasts? Am I to spend the rest of my stay aboard The Pearl locked up in the brig? Or something worse, maybe – like ending my days dangling from one of her yardarms? I need some means to get Sparrow talking again (as ironic as the thought is – before I was always looking for a way to make him stop talking), I need some olive branch. But what? Hmmm.

"Rope burns, Captain Sparrow?" I hate how insecure my voice sounds all of the sudden.

"Fading as we speak. Which you weren't supposed to. So stop it, Commodore, or I'll be cleaning these with salt, savvy?" I hiss with pain as his touch turns rough for one brief flash of a moment – just long enough for him to make his point.

So, my attempted olive branch has not merely been refused, it has been thrown on the floor and stomped on. However, I do not have much time to worry about that, as the orange kitten (which has until now been satisfied with lying quietly in my lap) decides that a naked Commodore torso must exist as a substitute for trees and I am forced to fend for myself with my left hand (the right one is still chained and currently suspended in midair – I suppose I could try to move to allow myself a chance to lower it, but I somehow doubt that Sparrow would be terribly pleased if I began moving around, so I don't).

Seriously, though, I need to somehow appease Sparrow's wrath – if the man is capable of carrying a grudge for ten years for the commandeering of his ship, then I do not care to think about what he might do if he stays angry at the man who tried to execute him – and right now he is apparently angry enough to not even use my name, which he has otherwise been doing with impunity. But if he will not even allow me to speak, how then am I supposed to come up with any way of reaching a truce?

The strange dream comes to mind again – he as much as claimed a liking of me in it – perhaps? But no, I doubt that would work. If it really was just a dream then I would simply risk making Sparrow even more angry. And if it was something more, well – but no, how could it be, when next I was pretty much abandoned for nearly three days straight – and now this argument? Such actions hardly coincide with the sentiments expressed by the voice in the dream. So no, it was just a dream, don't imagine it to be something more...

Caught up in my ponderings I fail to keep track of the silver kitten (a mistake that the orange one's shenanigans really should have warned me against making), so I am unprepared (and – with both hands otherwise engaged – defenceless) when it, not to be outdone by the orange, decides to test its natural weaponry on a rather sensitive part of me – and so I come to learn that thread-bare breeches are really no match for needle-sharp kitten-claws.

I cannot prevent myself from reacting to the feline's assault on my person – truth be told I yelp in a most undignified manner and make a movement which is at once an attempt to dislodge the animal and to pull away from its claws and therefore accomplishes neither – and I have no doubt whatsoever that Sparrow notices said reaction. I suppose it would be quite hard to miss.

I feel his hands still their movements and I freeze – even though part of me is on the verge of begging him for help with this _creature_ , then what is left of my pride prevents me from doing so – as does the fact that I fully expect something unpleasant to happen, since I have clearly defied his very unambiguous orders.

Velvet softness accompanied by something cool and hard slides over my left shoulder from behind and out of the corner of my eye I behold Sparrow beholding the source of my current discomfort as well as the fact that I am presently unable to intervene personally.

Part of me halfway expects – or rather fears – that Sparrow will decide to leave the kitten be – to teach me a lesson, perhaps? For what feels like a short eternity, but is in actual fact only a few heartbeats time, it would actually appear so – but then I see the corner of his mouth twitch and feel an arm snake around my midsection to seize the little beastie by the scruff of its neck.

"Easy on the goods, little darling. We wouldn't be wanting the good Commodore to end up a eunuch, now would we?" and his voice contains more amusement than actual reproach as he lifts the animal up in eye-height to glare at it. Is it my imagination or does it actually manage to look embarrassed?

Sparrow puts the cat down on the bed, where it immediately starts cleaning itself – looking for all the world as if whatever just occurred had absolutely nothing to do with it (that it was in fact far beneath its dignity) – although that only lasts until it notices how fascinatingly rumpled the blanket on the bed is and sets off to explore. Soon, the orange cat joins it, thus freeing my left hand – though my right one is still dangling uncomfortably and beginning to go numb.

"How about you move yourself a bit to the right, Commodore James?" it comes from behind me as Sparrow removes his head from my shoulder, and I do so immediately, too relieved by the chance to give my poor arm a rest to question the why of it, let alone pay much attention to the fact that most of the anger seems to have faded from Sparrow's voice.

A second chance to notice follows almost immediately, as he continues: "Now, Commodore James, I'm going to put some more of that stuff that lieutenant of yours gave me on your back, unless you've got any objections. Don't know if it really helps any, but it doesn't seem to hurt, so..." and although I cannot see it I am convinced that he accompanied those words with a shrug – and perhaps a grin?

The salve is cool against my skin, but although the feel of Sparrow's hands spreading it is disturbingly pleasant, then I am not tempted to moan like I did the last time – I suppose it must have been the coolness against sun-warm skin that elicited such a response at the time.

So, unless I am deceiving myself it feels like the atmosphere has lightened somewhat – dare I offer a new olive branch? Yes.

"Ship's cats, Captain Sparrow?" I try to sound casual – my success is less than complete.

"Aye, and a fine pair they'll be. The mother's the finest ship's cat in all of the Spanish Main – lucky for me she had just had herself a litter, eh?"

"And a ship like The Black Pearl does not already have one?" Damn, why can I not be civil? Why can I not prevent myself from speaking words that can be interpreted as criticism?

Sparrow does not sound particularly offended when he answers me, though: "Aye, usually it would have, but you see, Commodore James, until just recently my fair lady was encumbered by a bunch of cursed mutineers and it would seem that animals were not too keen on being anywhere near em – sensible critters, really. So you see, The Pearl was short one ship's cat, and I _always_ give her the best."

"Maybe the curse did not repulse all animals – I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you have definitely got rats." And there I go again...

"Aye, rats, but you see, my dear Commodore James, they're naval rats – from off The Interceptor. After all, a cursed ship is better than none at all – but they'd probably have abandoned ship first chance they got - cept now the curse has been lifted and that brings us full circle. After all, can't be having the bloody Navy running loose on my ship, now can I?"

I suppose I should be deeply offended by his words, but they are not spoken in a voice that seeks to offend – or so I imagine, at least. Still, I choose not to answer his question (which is probably rhetorical anyway) and settle for simply enjoying this new, different, almost companionable silence.

Sparrow's hands have lost the purposefulness of their touch and are tracing lazy patterns on my back – I do not object. Part of me is telling me that I really ought to do so, part of me fears that any objection on my part to any action on Sparrow's part might mean a return to the unpleasant silence of just a few minutes ago.

After a while the silence stops being pleasant and instead begins reminding me of long hours spent alone in the cabin. Time to break it again, time to speak, time to ask Sparrow some other question – and the cats still seem to be as safe a subject as any.

"So, you spent the better part of three days searching Tortuga for the perfect ship's cat?" and why can I not keep the bitterness out of my voice? (And why is there even bitterness in my voice?) It is impossible to mistake – surely this will make Sparrow angry again.

"What's with all the questions, Commodore James?" and his hands glide up to squeeze my shoulders. "Get a bit lonesome all by your onesies? Miss ol´ Jack, did you?" He leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "I knew you'd warm up to me." Is that a hint of triumph in his voice?

"Don't flatter yourself," and before I can stop myself I shrug in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge his hands, then freeze as I realize what I have just done. I hold my breath, waiting for Sparrow's inevitable fury.

Imagine my surprise when I hear Sparrow begin to – to chuckle. It is so unexpected that I dare a look back over my shoulder, which awards me a glimpse of a man quickly succumbing to a full bout of laughter – how is it that this man can find so much amusement in my words? I have never been known as funny – occasionally I have been known to practice a little dry wit, but most of the time any laughter I could evoke had the strained ring of something forced. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, I manage to pretty much incapacitate this man with laughter time and time again – it makes no sense.

The laughter fades and I feel a hand fall on my shoulder – again. "I was beginning to miss my proud Commodore James. Starting to wonder where you'd gotten yourself to."

I suppose it is a foolish thing to go back to the same words that started our argument – yet I do so nonetheless. "And I repeat, Captain Sparrow, where exactly did you imagine that might be?" Forcing myself not to sound angry is no easy feat, but I have no desire to provoke a repetition – and I think I manage passably well.

Sparrow's fingers reach out to toy with my chain: "And what would you have had me do, Commodore James? Put you in the brig to sleep in a hammock with that back? Leave you unchained in my cabin so you could climb out the window? Take you with me into Tortuga so you could make good your escape at the opportune moment?"

I do not say anything immediately. Of course he is right – leaving me chained in his bed was a kindness compared to certain alternatives, but still, "Three days." No anger to hide this time, just – I do not know, just a plea for some sort of explanation. "Three days with absolutely nothing to do except thanking a mute for bringing me my supper." Not entirely true, but the point is valid – but why am I asking him this? Revealing this weakness?

"So, Cotton drew the shortest straw, eh?" He sounds faintly amused which makes me stiffen. It surprises me that when next he speaks there is something almost apologetic about his tone of voice.

"Commodore James, I didn't mean to cause you any distress, truly. I just wanted to get my business in Tortuga over and done with as quickly as possible. My apologies – I guess I should have checked up on you. I know it's no fun to be all by your onesies."

"And what would you possibly know of it?"

"Had more than my fair share of it, Commodore James – gaols, brigs, desert islands..." His voice fades and a glance over my shoulder reveals a man lost in thought – until he snaps out of it with a headshake that makes every one of his braids do a jig.

"Lift your arms, Commodore James," and a new bandage is wound tightly around my body.

As I lower my arms again I am briefly tempted to ask why he is doing this – why he is acting so – kindly – towards me, but I bite my tongue before the words actually get spoken. Somehow I know that it is not yet time to ask such questions – questions that might lead further than I would intend – questions that might lead to the matter of the emerald, the kiss, the strange voice in my dream. I am not yet even remotely comfortable with the thought of trying to find out what these might mean and so I hold my tongue.

In the silence I grow uncomfortably aware of Sparrow's presence right behind me – the heat radiating from his body, the smell of rum on his breath, the sound of his heartbeat – far too close for far too long. Yet no more than seconds can really have passed before Sparrow pads my shoulder lightly and gets off the bed.

"There you go, Commodore James, all done. And don't you worry – it looks like it's hardly even gonna scar."

I do not turn around right away – simply sit for a bit, trying to gather my thoughts – until an explosion of sound makes me whirl around (or rather attempt to, only the manacles gets tangled, so the end result is less graceful than it could have been, but at least I wind up facing in the right direction) to see Sparrow lying flat on his back on the floor, the odd metal contraption that used to hang from the ceiling (and which I several days ago decided must be some form of perch for a pet – a monkey, perhaps? – only Sparrow does not have any pets to my knowledge – unless you count his very own personal Commodore (and a pair of ship's cats currently hiding under the blanket, spooked by the sudden noise, but I suppose they are not really pets)) lying squarely on his chest.

"Sparrow, what in God's name are you doing?"

"Just a little cleaning, mate. No need to concern that pretty head of yours," he answers as he picks himself up from the floor.

"Cleaning?" Not an activity I would usually associate with pirates.

"Aye. You see, my dear Commodore James, me and the late and very much unlamented Captain Barbossa – we have vastly different tastes when it comes to décor," and as he speaks he opens the cabin door and hurls the metal thing as far away as he can (eliciting a couple of faint protests from the deck). "Let me give you an example: Barbossa, he -loved- wax candles – couldn't get enough of the bloody things," and a sweeping gesture encompasses the vast number of – well – candles in the cabin. "Now, me, on the other hand, being as I am very aware of the fact that I am sailing in a _wooden_ ship and that any little tumble might spell disaster – I can't stand em, savvy?" and an armload of half burned wax candles follows the metal perch's airy route.

And so I sit and watch while Sparrow empties the cabin of all sorts of things that I presume must have been the property of Captain Barbossa – at one point he even looks speculatively at the beddings (he goes as far as to take a step towards them, causing the kittens to seek sanctuary under the bed, but then changes his mind). Still, in surprisingly short time the cabin has been pretty much emptied of everything except the furniture and a collection of maps in one of the cupboards – and of course the various pieces of luggage standing on the floor.

"I would never have thought that your tastes ran towards Spartan décor, Captain Sparrow," I comment dryly as he sinks down on the bed, beholding his work.

"Oh, it doesn't, Commodore James. It's just that I'll be waiting a bit before unpacking," and he gestures towards the eccentric collection on the floor – and thus reminding me of _my_ sea chest, standing in the corner. I am briefly tempted to ask him exactly why – and how – it can be that it is aboard The Pearl, but I refrain – there will be time to ask about that later, I am sure.

Instead I look at the objects Sparrow indicated: "So all these things are..:?"

"Stuff. -My- stuff. Can't seem to stop acquiring it." An impish grin accompanies these words.

"I see." I am tempted to ask where he has been keeping all these things (perhaps tangled in one of his braids?), but before I have the chance he speaks again.

"Aye, Commodore James. There's an innkeeper here in Tortuga who'll store stuff for you if you pay him enough. All you have to do is put your package aboard some pirate ship and tell the Captain to get it to that inn next time he stops by Tortuga – well, that and give the man some payment for the transport. Anyway, been doing it quite a lot – as I said, can't seem to stop acquiring stuff."

He flops down next to one of the sea chests and begins working on the lock with a thin dagger.

"I thought you said this was your property?"

"Aye. But you know how it is with keys – always loosing em. And I couldn't very well send unlocked luggage along, now could I? Pirates, you know – can't trust em," and the pirate telling me this grins at me, but is then distracted by the click of the lock surrendering to his attempts to open it.

"Now, lets see what we've got here," and in the fading light he begins to rummage through the contents, picking up and discarding sundry items – including (but not limited to) pieces of jewellery, a mirror in a gold frame (and I would love to get my hands on that for just a moment, to see how sorry the state I am in really is), plates, cups, utensils, a couple of pipes and what look to me like some very fine navigational instruments – until his hand closes around an oil lamp of exotic design – "I knew it was here somewhere!" – and shortly thereafter a soft glow illuminates the cabin.

Sparrow is about to dive back into his chest when – I am embarrassed to say – my stomach's growl makes him look at me.

"Getting a bit peckish, Commodore James?" I consign myself to a nod. "Well, we best do something about that, eh? Was considering taking you to this cosy little inn I know in Tortuga, but that'd probably be a bad idea, so..." and he leaves.

The thought runs through my mind that he has gone into Tortuga himself, leaving me here to go hungry. Long minutes pass, but eventually he reappears with a tray, then leaves again only to return with one more which he places squarely in front of me on the bed.

Considering the bold red crustacean placed in front of me I half expect Sparrow to make some joke – "A lobster for a lobster" or something similar – but he settles for encouraging me to "dig in" - which I do, hungry as I am. Besides, lobster is actually one of my favourite dishes, though I am definitely not going to be sharing that bit of information with Sparrow. Nor the fact that this is some of the best lobster I have ever tasted – if not _the_ best – oh no, that would never do.

A few bites into the meal Sparrow lifts a bottle: "Rum, Commodore James?"

I shake my head. "No, thank you, Captain Sparrow." Why is he asking me this now? He has not offered me rum once since the first day, so why now?

"No, you're not much for rum, now are you, my dear Commodore James?" He pours himself a mug, then puts down the bottle and twirls a chin-braid in the manner I have come to recognise as considering. "But really, I can't be having my fine guest parched, so, I thought to myself, maybe this is more to the good Commodore's taste," and a new bottle - looking a lot more official (that is to say, it has a label) than Sparrow's obviously smuggled bottle of rum (not to mention a lot more expensive) – is placed in front of me before I have a chance to state that I really do not mind not having any liquor. "Some port, Commodore James?"

Now I find myself in a bit of a bind, because honestly I have never been one to indulge myself overmuch in the spiritual pleasures (not that I have abstained completely, not by any means) nor do I have any desire whatsoever to get drunk in present company. (Besides, I am fairly certain that you are not really supposed to drink port until after a meal.) On the other hand I have no desire to offend my host´ either, and refusing the port that has apparently been acquired specifically with me in mind would probably qualify as an insult – not to mention that it would be most un-gentlemanly and I am ever the gentleman. So, a compromise? "One glass, then." Sparrow pours somewhat more into the glass that I personally care for, but, well, as long as it is just _one_ glass – and I raise it in a silent toast to my dinner companion before raising it to my lips to take a sip – and swallowing altogether too much of it upon seeing the predatory gleam in Sparrow's eyes as he watches me.

Sparrow's golden grin is evident as he watches me return my attention to my crustacean – he does not make any comments, though, and soon he too is eating. The meal passes in silence and the only distraction comes from having to defend my meal from a pair of feline pirates – with less than total success. Sparrow just laughs and feeds them bits from his own plate.

Once the plates are empty Sparrow takes them and leaves without a word, only to immediately return with a fruit pie. Then he sits down in front of me and before I can voice a protest he pours some more port in my glass.

I look at the full glass for a bit before telling myself that there really is not that much difference between one glass and two.

This time I take the time to actually taste the port – and blink to realize that what I am drinking is probably worth more than I earn in a month.

"Where on Earth did you get this, Captain Sparrow?" Surely he has not bought this – for me? Surely it must be from some raid or other? (But when has he had an opportunity to practice his profession since he kidnapped me?)

"This is Tortuga, mate. Everything's for sale here as long as you've got the means – and I'm a man of considerable means, savvy?" Someone else's raid, then – and only God, Sparrow and the salesman knows what he had to pay for it – and I am certainly not going to ask.

"So – I take it your business in Tortuga went well?"

"Aye, very well."

"I suppose you still have things to handle in town."

"No, all done, actually. As a matter of fact, Commodore James, we'll be heading out on the morning tide." I am not sure whether I am pleased or not by the news – of course I do not want to go anywhere with Sparrow, but at least I will not have to spend my days chained to the man's bed once we are back at sea, right?

"Headed where, Captain Sparrow?" I ask, knowing full well that that particular piece of information will be given me only when it fits Sparrow so to do – and I am quite correct.

"Tell you what, Commodore James: You and I are going to be having ourselves a bit of a chat on the morrow – maybe I'll tell you then, savvy?" No point in asking why we cannot simply have this chat´ now – probably just one of this madman's whims anyway.

"So, I expect you will be going back into Tortuga to enjoy your last night ashore," and I nearly add something along the lines of "and leaving me all alone – again", but I manage to prevent myself from doing so. Still, judging from Sparrow's grin I would say that he has heard my unspoken words quite clearly. For some reason that irritates me.

"Oh no, I don't think so, my dear Commodore James. I think I'll be staying right here and enjoy your own fine company," and for the third time he fills my glass with port. I look at it for a bit before mentally shrugging – might as well be hung for a sheep – and accepting the drink.

"So, I am to spend the evening listening to yet another one of your silly stories?"

"Not in the mood for a tall tale, eh, Commodore James? Well, maybe I could interest you in a game of cards? Or chess – I'm pretty sure I've got a set somewhere," and he gestures towards the assorted pieces of luggage on the floor.

"So your fiendish plan is to get me drunk so you can beat me at cards – and if that does not suffice I suppose you will simply cheat." And _that_ is the reason why I usually refrain from drinking terribly much – I loose control over my tongue and end up saying things that it is unwise to say (not that I seem to have any trouble doing so while sober in present company). Fortunately Sparrow does not seem to take offence – he simply leans back, spreading his arms wide, and – with a grin – states: "Pirate" – as if I was not perfectly aware of that fact.

"So, no story-telling and no gambling. No worries, mate, lots of other interesting ways for a couple of gentlemen to while away an evening," and the predatory gleam is back in his eyes and combined with the port and his words it makes my mind take flight, following a dizzying, frightening route. Surely he does not mean...

"I know!" and my train of thought dissipates like mist in the sun, at once forgotten, when Sparrow jumps off the bed and heads straight for an unopened sea chest, the lock of which he gets to work on. "I'll -read- you a story, what say you to that?" and the lid swings open to reveal what from my position looks like half a library crammed tightly together.

I must admit that the thought of Sparrow reading has never crossed my mind – and if it had it would probably have been dismissed straight away (apart from perhaps the occasional map – after all, he is the captain of a ship (a pirate captain of a pirate ship, but still...)). After all, pirates are not generally known for their literacy. On the other hand, most pirates are not known for their ability to quote Plato either, so I suppose I should not be surprised – yet I am, and the surprise steals my voice while Sparrow rummages through the chest, occasionally sending me a speculative look before diving back in.

Eventually he settles on a volume bound in fine red leather and returns to the bed, sits down right next to me and slings a much-too-friendly arm around my shoulder – in short, gets comfortable while completely disregarding my lack of enthusiasm for his closeness.

I sip my port and steel myself, fully expecting Sparrow's choice of literature to be something inappropriate for reading in the better part of society. But I am in for a surprise – or rather several surprises.

The rustling sound of pages being turned, then: "Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace; four happy days bring in another moon: but, O, methinks, how slow this old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, like a step- dame or a dowager long withering out a young man's revenue."

Oh, but I know this play – I know it very well indeed. My mother - may she rest in peace – loved Shakespeare – sometimes I suspect she loved Shakespeare higher than the man she married – and she must have read all of his plays to us children many times. This play – 'A midsummer-night's dream' – was a particular favourite of her's and I imagine I must have heard it sufficiently many times to know it by heart.

But Sparrow's taste in literature is not the only surprise: the way he reads is one as well. Gone is the usually slurred voice, gone is every trace of exotic dialect – his Theseus and Hippolyta speak like true royalty. Where on Earth did this man learn to speak like a cultivated person? The same place he learned how to read?

I decide to drown my speculations in the latest glass of port Sparrow has poured for me – and nearly choke on it as his voice turns first into an imitation of Governor Swann´s and then of Miss Swann´s, having them play the parts of Hermia and her father, mirroring their parts in the real world. Sparrow's impudent grin does _not_ provoke me to comment his choice. Nor do I offer any explanation when I once again nearly choke on the port when his voice changes to -mine- speaking as the fair Hermia´s scorned suitor Demetrius – I am definitely not going to tell this pirate why it is especially inappropriate to say: "Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield thy crazed title to my certain right," in my voice. Oh no, definitely not.

And so it continues, with Sparrow changing his voice to match every character in the play. That young Mr. Turner is given the part of Lysander, Hermia´s true love, is hardly a surprise. His choice of Groves for the part of Helena – the young maid in love with Demetrius – now that -does- make me choke on the port (which forces Sparrow to interrupt his reading to pound me on the back – very carefully, mind, and therefore, sadly, not much help at all). And I laugh out loud when the foolish Bottom is given Gillette's voice – blame it on the port (how many glasses has it been? I have lost count). Oberon and Titania speak like Gibbs and Anamaria – not sure I fully agree with those choices. And for which part does Sparrow use his own voice? Why, for that of the mischievous trickster Puck – what other part in this play could it possibly be?

And so the story unfolds, with both humans and members of the fair folk playing tricks on each other, making mistakes and acting terribly human in general whether they are supposed to be such or not. It is odd how Sparrow's voice seems to drown out a lot of the noise from night time Tortuga – it is still noisy, but not nearly as much as the past two night (of course, this might also simply be because it has been Sparrow who has been causing the noise and this is the normal level).

Surely the fine meal and the plentiful spirits are to blame for my feeling of – of what exactly? I am not sure. I just know that I am beginning to find this whole ridiculous scenario rather – comfortable? It feels almost like I am a child again, back home in faraway England, and my mother is the one reading to me (she used to give each character a voice of his own, too – though admittedly not as skilfully as Sparrow does it).

I am getting drowsy now, beginning to nod, and I find myself drifting off into something very near sleep, only to resurface several lines later in the play. I would like to get into a more comfortable position, but leaning back is out of the question and any other change in position would require that Sparrow first moves his arm – and so far he has not displayed any intentions of doing so – so eventually I opt for leaning against the pirate at my side. He does not seem to mind.

The play is nearly finished, and Sparrow's hands gently move my unresisting self into a comfortable sleeping position – and memories of similar evenings with my mother come to me. Surely it is only a memory, those fingers trailing through my hair, those lips pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek (though my mother's breath never smelled of rum – usually tea, occasionally port, but never rum).

The sound of pages rustling, then Sparrow's voice sounding far away and getting further away by the moment: "If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumber´d here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream..."

Yes, a dream – this bed seems to make a man dream of the strangest things, doesn't it?

The last thing I feel before Morpheus´ arms close tightly around me is two soft furry purring forms snuggling up close to me. Maybe later I will remember thinking that it is rather nice.


	7. Price of the Word of a Gentleman

What eventually wakes me is not the sounds and movements of a ship at sea – I am quite accustomed to sleeping through them after having spent all of my adult life in the Navy. Neither is it the loud scraping, as if of something big and heavy being dragged across the floor, nor the repeated splashes and door-slams that follow it for a while (though I register these sounds – somewhere between being half awake and fully asleep).

Like a fish refusing to take the bait, I sleep – ignoring the nearly, but not quite, rhythmic plinks and plonks that follow, interspersed with the occasional muttered curse. I have no desire to wake, no desire to face the reality behind this plethora of sound.

In the end, not even the small splash followed by the loudest, most indignant feline yowl I ever did hear is sufficient to drag me out of Morpheus´ tight embrace. The same cannot be said of the shaking, soaking-wet ball of fur that curls up against my bare skin a heartbeat later.

My eyes fly open and I sit up straight (startling the kitten into seeking sanctuary elsewhere) and open my mouth to make my own indignant exclamation – but then the reality of a horrible headache and a terrible feeling of nausea catches up with me and makes me sink back down on the bed, curling up and moaning in my misery.

"And a very good morning to you too, my dear Commodore James."

Damn that Sparrow. How dare he sound so cheerful when I am feeling so miserable? Especially since it is all his fault – him and his damn port! As it is, all I can do is lie here and try to fight back the nausea, meanwhile ignoring both the pirate and the plinks and plonks still coming from the same direction as his voice.

"If you´d care to open your pretty eyes and look at that tray next to you, Commodore James, then you´d see a glass of something I think you´d better drink."

The glass Sparrow is referring to is unmistakable – after all, it is the only glass on the tray. I look suspiciously at the unappetizing, greenish-brown liquid, then shrug and drain it. After all, if this is not something that will alleviate my discomfort, then it might be a poison to put me out of my misery – at present, either possibility sounds agreeable to me.

The liquid is cold and slimy going down, and it tastes similar to what I just narrowly avoided having come up – truth be told, I am not sure how I manage to keep it down. Somehow I do, and a few minutes later I am rewarded by a noticeable diminishment of my discomfort.

Rational thought returns and a part of me demands to know what witches´ brew I just drank – a slightly more cautious part prevents me from voicing the question, using the lingering taste as a very convincing argument as to why I really do not want to know the ingredients.

My second attempt to sit up this morning is met with considerably greater success than the first, whereupon I turn around and look at Sparrow – and blink.

It might possibly be my imagination – or maybe the concoction I just swallowed contained something hallucinogenic – but it would appear that Jack Sparrow is standing next to a bathtub filled with steaming water.

Plink – my eyes are dragged away from the tub by the sound – and I blink again as I realize it´s source.

Nimble fingers move through tangled hair and liberate a coin, old and tarnished, and drops it into a bowl before returning to their task of untangling and unbraiding, only occasionally having to make use of a small, sharp knife to liberate a particularly uncooperative trinket from the mane.

I find myself at a loss for words, unable to do anything but watch as Sparrow slowly and meticulously undoes each and every braid until his hair is completely free of oddments – even the spiky bone is gone – and cascading down his back, still in desperate need of a closer acquaintance with a brush, but nevertheless a most unexpected sight – who would have thought that Jack Sparrow could let go of his strange hairstyle with such ease?

Again the hands are raised and swiftly Sparrow divests himself of the beads in his forked beard, earrings that I had only been able to suspect were hiding behind all that hair and a number of fine rings – all of which are in their turn put in the bowl.

I wonder if Sparrow sees me staring at him in something that is not quite fascination – he gives no outward sign as to whether or not he even notices me. Not a single one of those dazzling, impudent smirks, not a glance, not a word – silence, not eerie, yet completely out of place fills the cabin. He does not act as if he is ignoring me, though – it is rather as if he really does not care one way or the other about my presence, although he is undoubtedly aware of it.

A couple of strange almost-hops and his boots are kicked away, then the attention shifts to the sash and waistcoat, both of which end up thrown on a chair.

Dancing fingers move purposefully towards Sparrow's shirt, undoing the buttons with the ease of long practice. Still I cannot seem to find my voice, as cloth is peeled away to reveal a finely muscled chest, it´s skin like a map of a lifetime, covered as it is in scars (like the mad pattern of red stripes on his left arm and the two old marks from some musket´s bullets on his chest) and tattoos (like the ship – obviously the Pearl – on his right arm and the beautiful Asian dragon peering at me over his shoulder), yet there is still the occasional stretch of smooth, deeply tanned skin – and why is Sparrow not saying something? Surely my stare would be the perfect thing to mock?

And then the hands move downwards, towards his breeches, and somehow my tongue once again obeys my will.

"Captain Sparrow, what do you think that you are doing?"

Cinnamon eyes focus on me.

"I would´ve thought that an astute gentleman such as yourself would´ve guessed, Commodore James – I´m taking myself a bath."

"A bath?" and I am not sure whether it is the thought of this grimy pirate voluntarily engaging in such an activity that causes the disbelief in my voice, or simply the thought of anyone wasting valuable water in such quantities on such a luxury while at sea.

"Aye, a bath – I´m sure you´re familiar with the concept. Cleanliness and godliness and all that, eh?" and once again those hands begin to move, only to stop and hover midair at my next exclamation.

"Mr. Sparrow, have you no modesty?"

For a moment he actually seems to ponder, then shakes his head vigorously – "No" – and nimble fingers begin working on the first button...

"Sparrow!"

At first it seems as though Sparrow is simply going to continue despite my protests, but then the half-naked pirate stalks towards me. Momentarily I worry that he might have somehow taken umbrage, but he stops just short of the bed. A grin, a wink – "Your loss, mate," – and the draperies that can be used to separate the bed from the rest of the cabin are pulled back in place, shielding me from Sparrow´s – presence.

For a few moments it is nearly silent on the other side of the draperies, then comes a splashing noise. Seconds pass, whereupon a new sound starts to reach me – half-muttered lines mixed with occasional humming, regularly interrupted by a loud and very enthusiastic "Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate´s life for me." My heart has time to beat a few times before my still somewhat sleep-addled and hung-over self realizes the awful truth: apparently Sparrow is one of those people who sing in the bath – and out of all the songs in the world he would of course have to pick this one...

I groan – though my headache has weakened, it is most definitely still present, and I would appreciate a little quiet. Nevertheless, I resist the temptation to ask for it – with my present luck Sparrow would probably begin to sing even louder. Instead I choose to take advantage of my similarly weakened nausea to have some breakfast and pick up the bowl left on the tray. Immediately I find myself graced with the presence of the two kittens – the red one still bearing faint traces of its earlier encounter with Sparrow´s bathwater. After briefly investigating my breakfast (and finding it not to their liking) they make themselves comfortable on my person and leave me to my porridge.

Time measured in sound: Sparrow singing – at some point changing the tune to a sea shanty that he actually sings rather well (possibly because he actually seems to know the lyrics to this one), but dear God, could he not have chosen any other than the one about the drunken sailor? Yet again I barely resist the urge to yell at him to stop. Mercifully he soon does so of his own volition. Then follows the sounds of a person getting out of water – accompanied by liberal dripping – and moving around, of a door opening and – shortly thereafter – closing. Then the draperies are pulled aside to admit a man carrying an armload of things.

It is hard to say what the first thing I notice about him is. Perhaps it is his garb – tight black breeches and a white shirt hanging open to reveal a finely muscled chest. Perhaps it is his hair – long and black and cascading down his back, looking like it would feel like silk to the touch. Perhaps it is his face – the face of some youthful nobleman, I would say, if not for the beard that frames it – more than a goatee, but less than a full beard, and as silky looking as the hair – proving without a doubt that this man has seen many a year come and go. Perhaps it is his catlike grace – swaying slightly, just enough to match the movements of the ship, seemingly not even conscious of doing so. Perhaps it is the colour of his skin – a deep dark colour like a man might have after spending a lifetime in the sun, or perhaps simply the skin you would expect a Spaniard to have. Perhaps it is all of these combined. Perhaps it is none of the above – perhaps it is something intangible, something for which I do not know the word.

I try to gather my wits sufficiently to ask this stranger who he is – is he perhaps some Spanish nobleman? And in that case what is he doing here, aboard this particular ship? Is he, too, a prisoner of Sparrow´s? If so, might we be able to help each other make good our escape?

But then the man sits down in front of me, his lips parting in an ivory and gold grin, and I realize who it is I have been staring at – who would have thought that Jack was hiding _this_ underneath all that filth and grime?

The pirate´s eyes gleam mischievously and a few days ago I would have fully expected some mocking comment – but the last many times Sparrow has refrained from behaving as I would expect and consequently my expectations have changed – and surprisingly enough they turn out to be correct this time.

The pirate rummages through the small pile of items he just put down and eventually picks up the gold-framed mirror I saw yesterday. Without a word he places it in my hands (incidentally scaring the felines into leaving their comfortable perches to peek at us from behind a pillow), then proceeds to move it and them until he seems satisfied with the position (and repeatedly preventing me from turning it around to get a glance at my own sorry state or simply putting it down – it takes a few interrupted attempts at both before I give up). I glare at him over the frame – have a been degraded to a piece of furniture, then?

Sparrow seems oblivious to my anger. Turning his head slightly to allow him to see a portion of his hair in the mirror, he reaches up and starts braiding it, adding vividly coloured wooden and metal beads from his pile and then an old, worn button.

"I want you to give me your word as an officer and as a gentleman that you won´t try to escape."

"What?"

"I. Want. You. To. Give. Me. Your. Word. As. An. Officer. And. As. A. Gentleman. That. You. Won´t. Try. To. Escape," he repeats, slowly, pronouncing each word carefully as you would when faced with a small child or a foreigner.

"I heard you the first time, Sparrow," I growl.

"Oh, good," he smiles, seemingly more interested in getting the second braid just right than in our conversation. In the silence I can hear the sound of the cabin door opening and someone moving on the other side of the draperies. Sparrow seems to pay it no heed.

"So, will you?"

"Will I what?" The cabin door slams.

"Give me your word." Long, slender fingers put the finishing touches to the second braid.

"Sparrow, how on Earth could you possibly imagine that I would agree to make -you- such a promise?" The cabin door opens again.

For a moment Sparrow abandons his braids, cocks his head and looks at me, his expression inscrutable. Then, my question going unanswered, his attention returns to the third braid.

"You asked about where we´re going yesterday, Commodore James?"

"Yes?" The word is a sigh – so the bloody scallywag wants to play this game again? Does he expect to drive me mad with these games of words that only seems to hold half of his attention, and all the time the door keeps on getting opened and slammed and people move about in the part of the cabin that I cannot see.

"Still interested?"

"Yes."

"Oh good," and then long minutes drag by as Sparrow works on his fourth – or is it fifth? – braid. It does not take long before I realize that the infuriating scallywag is trying to force me into posing the question anew and I resolve not to do so – let us see how long he can last. Several minutes and three braids later I suddenly realize how very childish this must look. So, he wants me to bite? Very well, then, I will.

The words "Pray tell, Captain Sparrow, what is our current destination?" cause a smile to flash in my direction.

"Well, see, my dear Commodore James, we just happen to be on our way to this lovely little island of my acquaintance – pretty little spot, with a nice little freshwater spring and a beach that looks like God had careening in mind when he made it. Lovely place, really – and the best thing about it is that this is an island that cannot be found _except_ by those who already know where it is."

"I do not seem to recall the Isle of the Dead having any beaches – fit for careening or otherwise."

"No, no, no – not Isla de Muerta. Another island."

"Another island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is?" I feel my eyebrow rising.

"Aye."

"And exactly how many such islands are you familiar with, Sparrow?"

"Oh, eight or nine – not counting these two sunken islands that only come up to the surface once every century or thereabouts." I find it hard to decide whether Sparrow is serious or simply trying to make fun of me – knowing him, probably a little bit of both.

"Well, that is all very well and fine, but I still fail to see how this should in any way make me willing to promise you anything!"

"Ah, well, see here, Commodore James – first we go to this little island and we careen and repair my girl," and as he speaks he affectionately pats the ship. "Not much chance of escape there, eh? Once we´re all nicely done and shipshape, we set sail for some nice, neutral port where all your little Navy ships won´t come barging in to spoil our little party, and from there we will send a letter to your friends in Port Royal to the effect that we would very much like to start the negotiations regarding your ransom."

"Negotiations, Captain Sparrow? It was my understanding that such matters customarily are handled with a straightforward demand."

"Aye, traditionally," he smiles – now why do I not like that smile? "And 'tis also traditional to add a little something to show that you´ve really got your hostage." Sparrow´s fingers stop working on the umpteenth braid to reach out and ghost over my fingers, my ears, the tip of my nose. I shiver – I cannot help myself. Even though I am beginning to get used to Sparrow´s mostly-veiled and hardly ever realized threats, even though I know that he has no need to prove possession and has already proven willingness to hurt – even so I shiver. For I have seen men who were missing fingers, missing ears (and not due to an accident), and not too long ago I read a report about a captain who had been forced to eat his own ears by a pirate.

"Good for you that I´m not exactly what you might call traditional, eh?" Sparrow´s voice is low and oddly – gentle?

No, Jack Sparrow is far from a traditional pirate – what traditional pirate would have tried to spoon-feed an ill Commodore? Turner called him a good man. Personally I would not go that far – no one who has voluntarily chosen to make a career out of robbery and theft can be called good (and I have no doubt that the choice was Sparrow´s – if the sheer and obvious pleasure he takes from his craft was not enough to convince me of this, then the random bursts of brilliance (surely enough to have allowed him to succeed at less criminal endeavours) would).

A good man – no. But not a bloodthirsty one, either. If anything I would call Sparrow a trickster, a man with no regard for any laws but those of his own making – and maybe not even those. Which might possibly be an admirable trait in a king (although I rather doubt it), but certainly not in a common man.

Then again, if there is one thing that Sparrow is not, then it is common.

I suddenly realize that neither of us has spoken in five braids´ time (Sparrow is well on his way to restoring his hair to its former 'glory´).

"I still do not see the relevance of all this."

"Well, Commodore James, as you´ve no doubt noted, you won´t really get much of a chance to escape before we reach that port anyway – and it would save ol´ Jack a bit of a bother if you´d just make that promise, savvy?" I suspect his smile is meant to be endearing, although it falls somewhat short of the mark.

"And why would I possibly want to save you – of all people - 'a bit of a bother´, Sparrow?"

"Ah, because I´d promise you something in return, my dear Commodore James?"

"Oh?"

"Aye – swear you won´t try to leave ol´ Jack prematurely, as it were, and in turn I promise to treat you as my honoured guest for the remainder of your stay, savvy?"

"Honoured guest?"

"Aye, on my honour as a bloody scallywag." That grin again, wide and mischievous, almost impish.

"Pirates have no honour," and I turn my head away, leaning back against the headboard of the bed to prevent him from seeing how tempting his offer is to me.

Sparrow finishes what would appear to be his last braid and reaches out to toy with my chain. "Ah, but you see, my dear Commodore James, 'tis not such a bad thing to be ol´ Jack´s guest. For instance, my guest wouldn´t have to wear manacles. In fact, my guest would be free to go anywhere on my Pearl – well, except for those cabins that´s been taken by the crew and the helm when I´m at it – but except for those places he would be free to go anywhere he´d like." And the hand removes itself to aid its partner in somehow fixing the bony spike in Sparrow´s hair.

"Sparrow, I cannot make such a promise." And truly I cannot. After all, it is one thing to make such vows when captured by representatives of a lawful enemy nation – in fact, I have already done so once in the past – but to a pirate? To a member of the brotherhood that has been called 'hostes humani generis´, the common enemy of all mankind? My career must already be greatly endangered by the events of the last few weeks – surely this would finish it off completely.

"Are you sure, Commodore James? You see, my guest just might also be allowed to call me by my first-name – which might come right in handy for you, seeing as how you still keep forgetting to call ol´ Jack 'Captain´ half the time even though you´re bloody well aboard my bloody ship." What a silly promise – hardly a temptation. Why should I have any desire to call him Jack? My reply is a snort.

"Not enough to convince you, my dear Commodore James?"

"I cannot under any circumstances make that promise." Though the thought of moving around freely, swinging my arms around, unimpeded by manacles – I will admit it is a rather tempting proposition.

"Don´t be so rash, Commodore James," and he stops trying to restore his goatee to its former forked liking and cocks his head. "Hear that?" At first I do not know what he is talking about, but then I realize that the constant comings and goings on the other side of the draperies are now accompanied by splashing noises.

"They´re filling up that bathtub again, Commodore James, with nice, hot, steaming water. Now, my guest, he´d get to have himself a lovely bath, savvy?" A hand reaches around to touch my bandaged back. "Would probably do your poor back a world of good, eh?"

Temptation, thy name is Jack Sparrow! How did he know? How did he guess? My skin, grimy and unwashed as it is, practically begins itching at the very thought of being clean again. Sparrow could hardly have chosen anything more likely to convince me – but still, I am an officer. There is simply no way...

"My guest could have himself a shave, too," and before I manage to pull my head away calloused fingertips glide over my stubbled chin, "a change of clothes, a better place to sleep than a hammock in the brig." Of course, only a fool would fail to notice the way he constantly mentions that all of these luxuries are intended for his 'guest´ - would fail to notice how he never once mentions how a prisoner will be treated. Not that it is all that hard to figure out – the only mystery is whether it would simply be a return to the way it has been, or if I will find myself locked in the brig for the remainder of my stay. Not that it really matters – surely, personal discomfort cannot in any way compare to the disgrace of making such an oath as the one Sparrow has demanded. If he was some French or Spanish naval captain making a similar demand – but he is not, he is a pirate, and it is a waste of time to even go there.

"Captain Sparrow, I am an officer of His Majesty´s Royal Navy. There is no conceivable way that I can give you my word to that effect," I tell the pirate, who has just added the final, vividly coloured bead to his forked beard.

"'Cause it´d be bad for your career if anyone ever found out, eh?"

"Indeed," I answer, relieved that he understands. Surely he will stop his attempts to persuade me now.

Alas, no such luck.

"Tell me, Commodore James, do you think ol´ Jack´s stupid?" he asks, while seemingly more intent on putting on a fine pair of gold earrings.

"No." Oh, no, never stupid – that is one mistake I will not be making again.

"Then how come you seem to think that I´d waste my time by making you an offer that you can´t accept?"

"I am quite sure that I have no idea what you are talking about." Except I think perhaps I do – and I wish that he would stop this.

"Well, let me put it this way – if you just make the promise, then nobody need ever know, savvy?" I wonder if he realizes exactly how tempting his offer is to me – and how weary I am of manacles and filth and the brig. The splashing from the other side of the draperies seem to be forming a broken chant of "surrender, surrender." But it does not matter – just because my superiors would not learn of such misconduct, then it is still an unacceptable thing for an officer to even contemplate.

"I would know," I say, stubbornly ignoring the part of me that desperately wants to say yes.

Sparrow cocks his head, looking intently at me for a bit – then his gaze shifts to the exquisite porcelain jar he has just picked up.

"My dear Commodore James, I´ve already told you that you won´t even get a chance to escape 'till we reach the neutral port – and if you don´t give me your word you won´t get one there either. So´s all just really a matter of how comfortable your stay with ol´ Jack´ll be, savvy?" He pauses in his speech to open the jar and dip a finger into its black contents, then proceeds to drag it over first one, then the other eye while keeping it closed – a process that leaves him looking vaguely like a racoon. As far as I can see out of the corner of my eye, anyway, for I have turned my face away – again.

"There ain´t no dishonour in not fighting when you can´t win, Commodore James." His voice is low, intent.

"What do you know about honour, pirate?" I expect anger or perhaps yet another clever and witty reply – I expect anything and everything other than Sparrow simply ignoring my remark, his attention focused on slipping gaudy, flashy rings on his fingers.

"Sparrow, I – I cannot..." but my words are cut short by a finger pressed against my lips, the cool metal of a ring somehow managing to send a shiver down my spine.

"'Course you can, Commodore James, it´s easy. It´s not a question of what you can or can´t do, it´s a question of what you will do, savvy?" I blink, staring at him, wanting to be able to offer some intelligent and decisive and most of all profound reply to that – but I do not. I just watch as he picks up a bright red bandanna covered in gold thread embroidery – obviously far more precious than the grubby rag he used to gag me with – and ties it around his forehead.

"Come on, Commodore James, give in – you know you want to." His breath is hot against my ear as those words are practically whispered into it.

"No," but even in my own ears my voice sounds weak and unconvincing, and I cannot seem to take my eyes off of his right hand (he is currently winding a piece of cloth around his wrist) and the angry red mark on the palm, no longer a wound, but not quite yet a scar. Sparrow does not seem to bother about my objection.

"Bath, clothes, no manacles – and ol´ Jack´ll never breathe a word, promise." There is something hypnotizing about his voice, his dark eyes no longer moving from me, his dancing, weaving hands. I am somewhat surprised when I hear my own voice asking: "No manacles?" And I nearly hate that voice, that question, the fact that even the asking of it is unacceptable for a proper Commodore – and yet I have just asked it.

"Aye, no manacles. Now why would my very honoured guest have to wear manacles?" Is it my imagination, or do I trace a hint of triumph in his voice? And if I do, is it then wrong of him to feel it?

"All you have to do is say the word, savvy?"

Silently I watch as Sparrow rises to finish his dressing – buttoning his shirt only half the whole way up, tying a yellow silken sash around his waist, putting on a fine blue waistcoat, somehow getting his feet into those ridiculously high boots of his. Coat, hat, belt, sword, pistol – and the man before me straightens, looking for all the world like a wealthier, more successful, but no less colourful version of the pirate I saw at the docks of Port Royal that day – which I suppose he is.

"So, Commodore James L. Norrington, do we have an accord?"

For one seemingly endless moment I just stare at his offered hand, thoughts of duty and warm water and the brig, resigning yourself to the inevitable and how the weight of a pair of manacles feels around your wrists running through my head – then I sell my pride for the promise of a bath.

Sparrow´s idea of what constitutes a handshake seems to involve warm fingertips gliding over the back of my hand and the thumb over my palm as if trying to map the skin by touch rather than your basic firm handshake – I tolerate this eccentricity on his part, nervous that an objection will make him go back on our deal before I have had a chance to avail myself of the things promised me in it.

Eventually he lets go and moves behind the draperies, only to return with a gleaming key in his fingers, twirling it and making is disappear and reappear as though he was some common street-corner conjurer.

Insert key and turn – and I find myself free at last, at least from the manacles. Rising, I rub my wrist, grown tender from the long manacling, and eye Sparrow with a mixture of suspicion and irritation – oh, but the latter is hard to maintain, as I feel the sheer pleasure of simply being able to stand properly for the first time in days. Nobody who has not been chained in such a way as to not be able to manage more than an awkward near-crouch will ever know how pleasurable standing in and of itself can be.

Sparrow walks a few steps backwards and somehow manages to twist and poke his head out through the draperies. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he then proceeds to pull them back, revealing the slightly cluttered cabin that has grown far too familiar over the last few days – not that I pay it much attention. My eyes are focused on the full bathtub standing in the middle of it. Steam is rising lazily from the water.

It is surprisingly hard to turn my eyes back to Sparrow. "I believe you mentioned a change of clothes?" I have a feeling that once I remove the breeches I am currently wearing they will prove to be well and truly beyond salvage.

"I might have."

"Well?"

"Well what, Commodore James?"

"Are you going to be providing me with it any time soon?"

"Ah, well, see – I was sort of thinking you could fish something out of that sea chest of yours, mate."

"I suppose I could," I reply, raising an eyebrow, "if not for the fact that I customarily keep it locked. And the last I saw of the key was in my office back in Port Royal."

"Not a problem, my dear Commodore James," and the light is reflected in gold teeth and the cold, hard steel of his knife before he kneels down in front of my sea chest and gets down to business.

There is something inherently wrong with a world where a man has to stand by and watch while a pirate picks the lock on his private sea chest – and not feel much need to protest. But it is true that there are clothes in it, and Sparrow´s method of getting to them is the most practical under the circumstances – any moral concerns aside.

A click as the lock surrenders and before I have a chance to prevent it Sparrow pushes the lid open.

"Now she´s a real beauty." There is something bordering on awe in his voice as his fingers glide along the curves of the ship painted on the inside of the lid. "Care to make the introductions, Commodore James?"

"That is the HMS Hippolytos – the first ship I ever served on." I find myself split between a desire to get Sparrow away from my things – not that there is really anything interesting in the chest, mainly clothes and a few well-thumbed books – and the odd appeal of the sight of him looking with a mixture of respect and genuine appreciation at the image of a ship that I heard sank beneath the waves two years ago.

"Hippolytos? Captain have some trouble with his stepmother, eh?" To the best of my knowledge old Captain Rutherford was an orphan, but I hold my tongue, faintly realizing that Sparrow is not really looking for an answer.

Eventually, with a "Very pretty", he drags his attention away from the painting – only to turn it towards the chest´s contents! Before I have a chance to stop them his pirate hands are going through _my_ clothes. I take a step forward, filling my lungs with a deep breath to allow me to voice my protest suitably loudly – and am presently cut short by a pair of shoes being placed in my hands.

"Let´s see, you´ll need those. And a pair of breeches that´ll leave at least a little to the imagination – and a nice shirt – and a belt, ah, here´s one – and stockings. Oh, silk stockings – you navy fellows do have such fine things – might just have to commandeer some of these." And with each garment mentioned it is added to a somewhat haphazard pile in my arms which I am forced to focus on in order not to drop my clothes down in one of the puddles left behind by Sparrow´s bathing.

"Sparrow, you are not going to steal my stockings," I protest somewhat exasperatedly, but he ignores me in favour of his newest find.

"Oh, look – you´ve even got yourself a wig in here!" he exclaims, as if the contents of my own sea chest ought to come as a great surprise to me.

Eventually the chest manages to yield a complete set of clothes – except a hat – and Sparrow adds my razor and a towel to the pile in my arms for good measure before letting the lid close.

"There you are, Commodore James, all set for your bath, eh?"

"Indeed."

And then the infuriating scallywag sits down on the table as though he is planning to watch!

"Captain Sparrow?"

"Yes, Commodore James?"

"Am I going to be allowed some privacy for this?"

"Why, are you embarrassed, Commodore James?" His smile is lewd, almost – but not quite – a leer.

"Sparrow."

"You shouldn´t be, you know – I´m sure you don´t have anything ol´ Jack hasn´t seen before."

" _Sparrow_."

"Which is not to say that I´ve ever seen you naked, my dear Commodore James." As if there was any doubt about that.

"Sparrow!"

"Although, as a matter of fact, I -am- actually sure that you don´t have all the bits I´ve seen in my day."

"Sparrow!"

"Not meaning that you don´t have all your bits – s´ not like I think you´re a eunuch or something, savvy?" (What is this obsession of his with eunuchs, I wonder?)

"SPARROW."

"Did once meet a fellow with a tail, though."

"S-P-A-R-R-O-W."

"Ugliest thing you ever did see – though it had its uses, if you get my drift." And I do not even want to try to understand what he is hinting at.

"Captain Jack Sparrow!"

And finally he seems to notice me. "Aye, mate?"

"Please."

For a moment it seems as though Sparrow will remain exactly where he is, his legs dangling from the edge of the table, the tub well within his field of vision. For one long moment it seems as though my first experience as Sparrow´s 'honoured guest´ is going to be being forced to undress in front of him.

Then he gets to his feet and takes a few steps towards me until he can lean forward, his eyes focused on mine, our faces barely an inch apart. "Spoilsport," and surely the fondness I imagine hearing in his voice is exactly that – a figment of my far too vivid imagination. "Come find me on deck when you´re all done, eh?" and at long last he starts towards the cabin door and for alone I breathe a small sigh of relief.

Halfway to the door he stops and turns around. "Going to need some help with that bandage, Commodore James?"

"No," I reply and then add "thank you," because it is really a thoughtful offer, and I suppose it is best to be polite. Sparrow nods and resumes his walk, then – with a hand on the handle – he turns halfway round.

"Going to need someone to scrub your back, James?" And now -that- smile is a leer, of that there is little doubt – the very epitome of lewdness.

"No!", but he is already out of the door, having somehow managed to not stumble over the kittens choosing to leave the cabin alongside him in favour of the deck. The door closes with something not quite a slam, leaving me feeling somewhat silly, standing there with my arms full of clothes and an awareness that if it was not so I would probably have hurled something – a hairbrush? – after him – and it would most likely have hit the closing door (although I am quite sure it would have made a most satisfying sound).

Oh well, alone at last.

The first thing I do is to take a deep, calming breath. The second thing I do is to deposit the pile of clothes on the table. The third thing I do is to cross the cabin in a few strides. The fourth thing I do is to turn the elaborate brass door key until I hear the satisfying sound of the door locking. The fifth thing I do is to slump against the door.

From outside – from somewhere just a little bit too close to the door – comes a short burst of laughter.

I just lean against the door for a bit – just to calm down completely – before heading back to the bed, sitting down and getting on with trying to get the fairly tight bandage off my chest. Eventually I manage, but not before regretting not taking Sparrow up on his offer.

I suppose I should simply strip completely and get into the tub before the water cools, but instead I pick up the mirror once more (when did I put it down? I distinctly remember it in my hands when Sparrow applied his kohl, but after that?) and look into it: a scruffy green-eyed man with filthy, unkempt hair and many days worth of stubble looks back at me. As bad as expected, I suppose.

I sigh, then proceed to spend a bit of time twisting and turning in an attempt to position the mirror so that I can get a proper look at my back – and then study the half-healed, but at least not bleeding lash-marks for what feels like a very long time. Beneath them I see the very old scars from my previous lashing half a lifetime in the past, so faded as to be nearly invisible if you do not know where to look – and no matter what Sparrow claims then these new ones will probably add to the latticework of pale stripes.

The thought of warm water manages to penetrate my heavier thoughts and I turn from the mirror, remove my breeches (which are coming apart in the seems in a most inappropriate manner) and the emerald that has become an almost familiar weight around my neck, and lower myself into the steaming water, tensing in anticipation of the sting of saltwater in my wounds. It never comes. Who on Earth would use such an exorbitant amount of fresh water – drinking water! – for a bath aboard a ship? I shake my head – ascribing it to Sparrow´s customary oddness – and, picking up a bar of soap lying on the edge of the tub, I set about the business of turning back into a human being.

A while later a much refreshed, much cleaner and much more human looking Commodore is halfway dressed and going through his sea chest in the hope of finding some hairpins to make his wig stay in place – a vain hope, as it turns out. Oh well, my other wig managed to fall off perfectly fine despite a multitude of hairpins supposed to prevent such an occurrence – surely this one will stay on my head despite the lack?

Stray locks tucked in under the old but still presentable wig, feet in stockings in shoes, the last button on my shirt buttoned, the old coat – not as fine as the one lost to the sea thanks to Sparrow´s abduction of me, but at least it has all the proper insignia – on top of the shirt – and I find myself looking at the emerald, pondering whether to put it back on. On one hand I suppose it would be unwise to upset Sparrow by not wearing his gift, but on the other hand, I am feeling quite strengthened by simply having had a chance to clean myself and besides, an emerald necklace has no place being worn with a uniform. Determined to not bend any further, I put the stone away – and now I suppose the time has come for me to go forth and locate the crazy captain of this ship.

I take a step outside the cabin, stopping to blink at the sunlight, so very bright after the gloom inside – and then I blink some more.

It would appear that my appearance has caused every head on deck to turn to regard me. It would furthermore appear that the crew of The Black Pearl – which used to be little more than a skeleton crew – has multiplied during my lengthy stay in the captain´s cabin, or so I must assume, since I cannot think of another explanation to account for the many completely new faces on deck. Finally, it would appear that not a single one among them likes what he (or she) sees.

Sparrow is fairly easy to spot – standing as far out on the bowsprit as he safely can and then some, the wind toying with his braids, looking for all the world as though he is some sort of extra figurehead. No, spotting him is no challenge – the challenge will be getting to him, something that will require of me that I walk through the throng of hostile pirates. The thought tempts me to go back into the cabin and lock the door behind me – but no. I refuse to let them scare me into hiding. I am a Commodore of His Majesty´s Royal Navy as well as supposed to be their captain´s 'honoured guest´ - they will not cow me.

As I start walking I take note of the fact that the deck seems more cluttered than usual – not only are there a higher number of unwashed bodies than before, but all the clutter of a sailing ship – ropes, half-mended sails and so forth – seems to have increased proportionally – and then of course there is the makeshift henhouse that someone has constructed at one end of the deck. Yet I ignore it all as best I can, taking care only of not accidentally walking into anybody, and focus on Sparrow, who seems to be the only one aboard still oblivious to the fact that I have emerged from his cabin.

There can be no doubt that the crew has noted my person, however – I have hardly taken two steps before the first hissing insult reaches my ears. "Navy dog" does not get to stand alone for very long – soon it is joined by a mixture of comments impugning my personal honour, questioning my courage and statements about various relatives of mine´s involvement with a number of more or less exotic animals. The insults form a sibilant susurrus, none of them spoken loud enough for the captain of the ship to hear. I ignore them, let them roll over me like waves – in the course of my career I have been called worse things as well as more original ones. Criminals awaiting the gallows are not exactly famed for their courtesy towards the men who captured them – and besides, they are just words. "Sticks and stones," as Sparrow told Eli- Miss Swann upon their first meeting.

Then the tone of the susurrus changes, hardens, sharpens – though not once does the words sound louder. Now there are words of cutting, stabbing, knives in the night, of fists and pistols and all the countless fatal accidents that can happen on a ship. I walk a gauntlet of threats among men who are acting like animals, growling at their prey – and I walk with a stiff spine, looking neither left nor right, ignoring them for fear of the possibility that if I show any fear they will attack – no matter what their captain wants. After all, are pirates not notorious for turning against their captains if they are unhappy with their decisions?

Beads of sweat form against my skin. I tell myself it is simply the layers of clothes I am wearing and I keep walking towards Sparrow standing on the bowsprit.

And then my ankle hits something hard and unyielding and suddenly both the deck and its occupants are tumbling by as the planks of the deck approach me at an alarming speed.

I suppose one should be grateful for small mercies – like the fact that I somehow manage to land on a coil of rope instead of on the deck itself, a pirate or – worse – a pirate´s sword or knife, or the fact that the whole tumble did not end with me landing on my back. But I hope I can be forgiven for not being in a particularly grateful state of mind as I lie there, glaring up at the peg-legged pirate who tripped me – after all, the deck is hardly a place for an 'honoured guest´ to lie. And as if the fall itself was not bad enough, then I can feel – I do not even have to look – that my wig is now, probably due to an absence of hairpins, sitting at what would be termed a 'jaunty´ angle if a hat was involved.

Anyway, I glare up at the one who put me in this unfortunate position – and it is a proper glare, a glare that has cowed many a pirate and made many a subordinate fall silent and hope to be dismissed, a glare worthy of a proper Commodore. I glare at him in the complete silence that is suddenly filling the deck.

And then he begins to chuckle.

And then he begins to laugh.

And then the rest follows suit.

Insults and threats, they do not bother me all that much – there is nothing new to them. Once they had bite – back when I was younger and more hot-headed, back when I thought things spoken by doomed men mattered. It is different with laughter, I realize, as is crashes over me like a tidal wave, coming at me from what feels like every corner of the ship. Against laughter I have no defences – and so it hurts.

I struggle to my feet, unhindered and unhelped, and try glaring at the offenders again – which simply makes them laugh so much harder. And that is when I decide that I will not take it any longer. 'Honoured guest´, indeed! I turn – out of the corner of my eye catching a glimpse of Sparrow moving towards me – and without wasting any time on trying to salvage my ruined appearance I stride back to the cabin, gales of laughter and a forest of pointed fingers following in my wake. At least nobody tries to stop me. At last I make it into the cabin, where I can slam the door and lean against the bulkhead without further incident. At least I manage that much.

Hardly two minutes later the door opens and closes once more, admitting Sparrow, who walks to where I stand without hesitation and leans forward, a hand planted on either side of me, to peak up at my face, half in the shadow of the bloody wig.

"Let me guess, Commodore James – you suddenly remembered you had forgotten to buff the buttons on your coat, eh?" Damn him for that slightly playful tone – this is not funny!

"Your – your crew seems to have increased, Captain Sparrow," I manage, trying to sound offhanded – not easy when all you really want to do is to yell at the man in front of you.

"Aye," and he has the cheek to grin. "Picked up some lads in Tortuga – part of my business there. Needed some more people to sail my Pearl properly, eh? 'Sides, gonna need every one of 'em when we start the repairs, savvy?"

"Indeed."

For a bit neither of us speak – the silence giving me the time I so desperately need to calm down properly. But I know I cannot avoid this new issue for very long – so why not meet it head on?

"'Honoured guest´, Captain Sparrow?" and I raise an eyebrow. He actually has the decency to let his answering grin be somewhat embarrassed.

"Aye, well – you can´t really blame them for laughing, Commodore James."

"No?" and my brow rises higher.

"No," and he shakes his head vehemently.

"And pray tell, why not?"

"Well, you see, my dear Commodore James, you in your pretty uniform are a pretty income... incompetent... incorporeal... inco... inconsiderate... inconsolable... incontinent..." and with eyes rolling in their sockets and his face all screwed up the usually so eloquent pirate goes through an admittedly vast and varied vocabulary in search of the word that has the audacity to escape him – and at the same time he manages to insult me more than once in such a way that I can hardly voice an objection. I wonder if it might not simply be an act to allow him to do that very thing.

"Incongruent?" I suggest, careful to make my voice sound somewhat weary, hoping to stop this little game of his.

"Aye, that´s the one, incongruent," and without missing a beat he continues: "You -are- a pretty incongruent sight aboard a pirate ship, savvy, mate?"

"Well, I should certainly hope so!"

"But you see, Commodore James, 'tis the incongruity that made 'em laugh – such a finely uniformed officer all on his onesies, among all us scallywags," and his smile is as golden as ever.

"I suppose," I reply, somewhat mollified.

"Well, that and the fact that you look like one of those fancy desserts all the ladies in good ol´ London eat."

I pull myself up in my full height and glare down at the blackguard. "I do not look like a dessert, Sparrow!"

"Oh, but you do, mate," and if only I could reach out and wipe that smirk off his face! "It´s the hat, you see – without it the wig makes your head look just like whipped cream atop some fancy cake – a very fine cake, to be sure," he adds after a moment, as if that will soothe my ruffled feathers.

"If that is the case I do not suppose you might have a hat I could borrow?" I think I manage to keep my voice reasonable level, all things considered.

"Sorry, Commodore James – don´t really have any that´d go with your pretty uniform. 'Sides, there´d still be the whole incongruity issue, eh?"

"Yes," and I feel myself leaning heavier – almost slumping – against the bulkhead. It would appear that Sparrow is going to play with me no matter what my alleged status aboard The Black Pearl is – and I suppose there is really nothing I can do about it. Nothing – except keeping a cool head and trying to not let my temper get the better of me again.

"Then what do you suggest, Captain Sparrow?" I think I do a passable imitation of a tired parent talking to a far too energetic child – not that he seems to notice.

"Are you asking me what I think, my dear Commodore James?" His eyes sparkle with glee.

"It would appear so."

"Well then, Commodore James, I´d suggest we make a few – adjustments to your outfit."

"Adjustments?"

"Aye, adjustments."

"Such as?"

"Well, first of all," and as he speaks he raises his dancing hands slowly, carefully towards my face – ever so slowly and ever so carefully, as if I am some angry beast that he wants to pet, but fears will snap at him – and then curls one finger around one of my wigs pristinely white curls, "the wig, mate, it really has to go." And suiting word to deed he removes the offending item from my head and puts it down on one of the many sea chests in the cabin, then turns back to let his fingers run through my hair – and I suppose I ought to object to that, should pull my head away – should I not? "You see, mate, it really does look silly without a hat - 'sides, why d´you want to hide your real hair, anyway? I´d understand if you were bald or something like that, but you have such nice hair." I ought to object to those words too – too familiar by far – why do I not?

"It is part of the uniform," I say, and only as I speak those words do I realize how very true that is – and how oddly naked and vulnerable I feel without it. Sufficiently so that I almost push Sparrow away and pick it back up, put it back on – but only almost, because I do realize how ridiculous that would look. And if there is one thing I do not need, then it is to appear even more ridiculous in Jack Sparrow´s eyes. It is bad enough that I can never seem to stay level-headed and calm around him.

Pirate fingers glide down through my hair, pausing for a moment to push a stray lock behind an ear, rests briefly on the epaulets on my shoulders, then glide even further down to undo the brass buttons on my coat!

"Sparrow!" I try to bat the impudent fingers away, but they avoid me and simply carry on.

"Ah, but Commodore James, we´re gonna have to get you out of this lovely coat too – far too Commodorish, savvy?" I sigh and resign myself to the fact that he is apparently not going to let me keep any of the obvious parts of my uniform. Hoping to get this over with a little faster I raise my hands again – and this time it is Sparrow who bats -my- hands away, so I let them drop to my sides and allow him to proceed with the unbuttoning. The thought that Sparrow might derive some peculiar amusement from removing my coat comes unbidden to my mind, perhaps partly due to the fact that it is the second time he does so – and is summarily rejected. The situation is embarrassing enough as it is.

"One thing I don´t understand about you Navy lads," Sparrow continues as he starts pushing my coat off. "Doesn´t it get bloody hot in all these coats and uniforms of yours? All those layers, mate – I´m surprised you don´t simply boil to death – like lobsters. Or maybe you do. Maybe that´s the real reason they call you lobsters, eh, Commodore James?"

Compliments from this pirate might confuse me, but insults I at least know how to deal with. I glare (despite the fact that glaring has proven quite ineffective as of late) and in as icy a tone of voice as possible I repeat my earlier words: "It is part of the uniform." I follow Sparrow with my eyes as he steps away, folding my coat surprisingly neatly and putting it down on my own sea chest.

"Actually, far too hot for coats today," and his own comes of as well, though it is simply draped over a chair, not folded.

Then he turns back to me, regarding me with an appraising look – and I prepare myself to fight off any further attempts on his part to remove items of my clothing. Fortunately, it does not come to that, as Sparrow nods – mostly to himself – and mumbles: "Better, much better." Then, raising his voice a bit, he continues: "But you still look too tense, Commodore James. That won´t do, that won´t do at all. You need to be more relaxed, savvy? So, how about we roll up your sleeves – like this – and unbutton that shirt of yours a wee bit – like this?" I manage to bat away his fingers before he undoes more than a couple of buttons. They return immediately, but only to arrange my collar to his satisfaction.

"Satisfied yet?" and I try to fill my voice with as much impatience as I dare.

"Almost, Commodore James, almost. Still something missing, though..." and brown eyes focus on my throat. I swallow, realizing what Sparrow is referring to.

"Where did you put it, Commodore James?"

"In my sea chest," I admit. "But Sparrow, listen," but he does not, as he strolls over to get his hands on the emerald.

Walking back towards me, he opens the locking mechanism and begins lifting it – and I step aside to avoid him. Brief frown, then a step to follow me and a new attempt – and I avoid him again. Another attempt, another avoidance – it becomes almost like a dance. And in between the steps of this dance I try to start reasoning with him, again and again and again: "Sparrow, listen..." but I never get the impression that he does.

"Can´t you bloody well stand still for one bloody moment?" he bursts out, finally loosing his patience after nearly a dozen rounds of the dance.

I lift my hands in front of me, as if to ward him off. "Sparrow, please. Surely you realize that whatever your reasons for giving me that trinket might be, then I simply cannot accept it – and surely as your -guest- I am allowed to do so?" The last bit was supposed to have been a statement – somehow, though, it turns into a slightly plaintive question.

Sparrow lowers his hands and cocks his head. "You can´t accept this pretty stone 'cause you might get into trouble if someone thought I´d bribed you or some such, eh?"

"Yes." Finally he sees reason.

"Commodore James, don´t you think I bloody well know that? I gave you this," and he dangles the emerald before my face, "because I was feeling generous standing on top of all that swag and knowing it was all mine, and because I thought it suited you. Now, what you do with it once you leave this ship is your business – you can keep it locked in a desk drawer or hand it over to the proper authorities or spend the rest of your life trying and probably failing to find the original owner. It´s up to you, savvy? But 'till then, don´t you think it might be wise to show a little respect for your host – who also just happens to be Captain of the ship you´re currently aboard, even though you seem to forget that bit all the time – and wear your bloody present?"

For a long, long moment we stand staring at each other – then I admit defeat by reaching out for the piece of jewellery. It is slightly surprising that I manage to operate the locking mechanism without fumbling or dropping the whole thing – and perhaps not surprising at all that Sparrow reaches out to adjust it just so. I let my hands fall, defeated. Is he not going to leave me with any scrap of dignity?

"Satisfied now?"

"Almost. Except..." and once again he lowers his gaze – this time to my midsection. Where my hands currently are. Surely this little incident has not irritated him sufficiently to make him put the manacles back on me? Surely? But my hands – almost acting of their own volition – still try to hide behind the rest of me.

Sparrow lifts his eyes to meet mine and I see amusement in them. I almost snap at him – this is still not funny. But then he turns away, heading towards one of his countless sea chests, digging through its sundry contents.

"I knew it was here!"

Held up as if for my inspection or approval is large piece of fabric – silk, unless I am mistaken – of a deep green colour, a couple of shades darker than the emerald. The sparse light in the cabin makes it sparkle and shine when Sparrow moves it.

"Sparrow, which part of 'I cannot accept any presents from you´ are you having a hard time understanding?"

"But I like giving presents, Commodore James. 'Sides, nobody´s gonna think you´d let yourself be bribed with just a sash – now lift your arms and let me put it on you," and I let him, feeling the fabric tighten around my waist – enough so that the sash will stay in place, but not so tight that my still tender back will suffer.

Then he steps back to survey his work.

"Nice, very nice – you look quite dashing, James."

The corners of my mouth seem to curl a bit of their own volition. Dashing? I am an earring and a tattoo short of looking like a pirate – is that what he considers dashing? I wonder if he might let me have a sword or a pistol if he could be persuaded that they would make me look even more 'dashing´.

I look up – and blink. When did he get so close?

And I really should see it coming, what happens next – should see it in the gleam of his eyes, should hear it in the purr of his voice. But I do not – do not associate this with another time that he used only my name and not my rank – even though I ought to.

Then he is even closer, so close that I can smell the rum and soap smell of him, so close that the word seems somehow insufficient – and he presses his lips against mine.

Caught by surprise I make no attempt to pull away as pirate lips slip and slide over my own, his surprisingly soft moustache tickling my smooth upper lip. Then his lips part ever so slightly to let his impudent tongue out to play – probing the corner of my mouth as if seeking entrance and, when denied, he drags it slowly – oh so slowly – along the entire length of my lower lip – and any moment now I am going to push Sparrow away with all my strength and the consequences be damned, going to ball my fist and strike him down, going to stare at him with a mixture of shock and outrage and sheer disgust, going to angrily demand an explanation, how dare you, what do you think you are doing?

Any moment now.

Any moment – now...?

And then the kiss ends as Sparrow backs away from me and I open my eyes (when did I close them?) to see an expression akin to that of a cat that has gotten into the cream on his face. I am just about to yell at him, but the expression changes before my eyes, converts into the slightly less infuriating smug one that I have come to think of as one of his customary expressions. But it only stays smug for the briefest of moments before turning into the very epitome of expectation, and he raises an arm as if offering it to me.

"Coming, Commodore James?"

I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but to my surprise I find that no words are forthcoming. I close it and make another try, with much the same result, and I am left uncomfortably aware of the fact that I have just made a passable imitation of a stranded fish.

Sparrow cocks his head and smirks slightly. "Well, my dear Commodore James?"

How can he be so calm? Especially after what he just did – how can he be so calm?

This time, at least, I manage to actually make a sound – although it is only a confused "what?", and as I say it I grow painfully aware that I have just given up my only chance to righteously rage at Sparrow for his impudence – after this it will only make me look foolish if I do.

Sparrow´s smirk is growing. "Ah, but Commodore James, it occurred to me that I´ve been most remiss in my duties as your host."

"Oh?"

"Oh, aye – seems I haven´t even given you a proper tour of my lovely Pearl yet. So, I thought I´d remedy that, savvy?" And not a word about the kiss, no indication whatsoever that it just happened. Does he even remember it? Or might this be Sparrow´s true madness – a habit of doing outrageous things and promptly forgetting about it afterwards? Or is he simply pretending – and laughing at me on the inside?

"Commodore James?"

"What? Oh – yes," and determined to show him that two can play this game I take his arm – though I must confess that I halfway regret it as he immediately leads me towards the door – I have no desire to return to the deck anytime soon, but I will be damned if I am going to tell Sparrow that.

Maybe it is simply my imagination, but it seems to me that the deck is even more crowded this time than previously, although not a single soul is staring directly at us. Instead each and every one seems to be busy with something – mending sails, splicing rope, sharpening a sword – but their attention is less than fully devoted to their tasks. Out of the corners of their eyes they watch – it makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise.

"Think we´ll start over here abouts, eh?" and without the slightest hesitation Sparrow drags me into the mass of people – I try to walk alongside him as dignified as possible and ignore the covert glances. I am not wholly successful at either.

And then someone behind us pierces the silence with an insult.

Personally, I would prefer to simply ignore it – after all, 'lily-livered lobster´ is by no means the worst I have been called today. In fact, as far as insults go it is quite lacking in both originality and venomousness. But Sparrow seems to be somewhat less willing to the let the matter rest – the words make him stop and then turn around, slowly – and since he has a good grip on my arm I am forced to do the same.

Slowly his gaze travels from person to person in the tense silence, until something – which might simply be that he recognized the voice or might be some for me unnoticeable sign – makes him stop at one of the new crewmen, a youth barely older than young Mr. Turner, tall and lanky to the point of gaunt and with a face full of freckles.

"Young Mr. Hawkins, isn´t it?" Sparrow asks, his tone of voice making it seem more of a challenge than a question.

"Aye, cap´n," and he raises his head to look Sparrow in the eye.

"Care to repeat what you just called the good Commodore here?"

"I called 'im a lily-livered lobster, cap´n." His gaze does not even waver.

"Ah yes, I thought that´s what I heard you call him. Tell me, Mr. Hawkins, what makes you think you can just go around and insult my very own guest like that?"

"'Cause he´s one of the bloody Navy dogs, cap´n!"

"Aye, he´s Navy – and so? I´m still pretty damn sure I had the word spread that he was to be treated politely." For a moment Sparrow´s eyes glide over the assembled pirates before returning to the youth.

"Aye, cap´n, that ye did."

"Ah – well, then, perhaps 'lily-livered´ and 'lobster´ got turned into compliments while I was looking elsewhere? Is that the case, Mr. Hawkins?"

"No, cap´n," and credit where credit is due: the youth is still looking straight into Sparrow´s eyes, never wavering or blinking under the baleful glare.

"Well then, if you weren´t under the impression that you were giving the Commodore a compliment – then why the bloody Hell did you defy my order like that?" Many men would have cringed – the youth does not. Instead he stands up even straighter.

"Well, ye see, cap´n – me and some of the lads figured that ye didn´t really mean that," and he gestures briefly to the men standing around him, each of them older and burlier than himself – the lads, I suppose.

"Oh – and how come you figured that?" Sparrow´s voice is almost mild – deceptively so.

"Well – that´s Norrington," and the youth points an accusing finger at me – as though my very name is some unspeakable sin. Sparrow lets his eyes follow the finger and – when they find me at his side – feigns surprise: "By the powers, you´re right – and here I was thinking I was having the Pope himself for my guest. Of course it is Norrington, you daft fool – didn´t you think I knew that?" he explodes, and the youth takes a step backwards. But this whole situation is beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.

"But, cap´n – he´s a pirate hunter. _The_ pirate hunter. They say he´s hung more than a thousand pirates and sunk more than a hundred pirate ships and – and –"the youth trails off. From his tone of voice I was half expecting him to accuse me of eating babies for breakfast on Sundays next. Under different circumstances this little speech might have flattered me – in an odd sort of way – now it simply sends a chill down my spine.

"Aye, sounds like we´re talking 'bout the same Norrington." A Norrington who is beginning to feel more and more nervous. A Norrington who is beginning to wish that Sparrow had not changed his status from simple captive to guest. A Norrington who wishes fervently that he had stayed in the cabin.

"But cap´n – ye can´t seriously be a-wanting us to treat _him_ like a guest!"

"Those were my orders, Mr. Hawkins, and those are still my orders, savvy?"

"Then, begging your pardon, cap´n – we – me and the lads – we think your orders are wrong," and as he speaks he very obviously places his hand on the cutlass in his belt. His cronies are also drawing attention to their various pieces of weaponry.

"Oh, you do, do you?" Odd, how calm Sparrow sounds. Personally I am terribly close to panicking – only his firm grasp on my arm keeps me from retreating with alacrity to the cabin. As it is, all I can do is stand still and pretend to stay aloof, falling back on years and years of naval discipline.

"Aye, cap´n."

"And what exactly are you lot planning to do about it?" He sounds almost pleasant, like this is no more than a friendly discussion about whether to have pork or beef for dinner, not a crewman openly suggesting mutiny – but then, I suppose discipline is a different matter amongst pirates than in the Navy.

"Well, cap´n, we was thinking we´d just throw 'im nice and quiet-like overboard." How certain of himself the youth sounds – but I will be damned if I am going to allow him to see my anxiety.

"So that´s what you want," and from the sound of it, it would seem that Sparrow is going to give in to the crewmembers demand and hand me over. I suppose it is the smartest thing – from his perspective. If he does not, he risks a full-scale mutiny, something I would think he would not care to experience twice. Besides, he is a self-styled dishonest man – promises of hospitality cannot weigh terribly heavily on his shoulders. He might lament the loss of whatever ransom I could have brought, but considering that the Navy ships are going to keep their distance to ensure my safety, then I could be killed without them being the wiser – so I suppose my value as a hostage has greatly diminished.

"Aye, cap´n, that´s what we want." How triumphant the youth sounds.

"Oh well," and I steel myself, gathering every scrap of dignity that I have managed to retain aboard this thrice-damned ship – if I am going to die today, then surely I can at least ensure that I do not disgrace myself in the process.

"You lot do realize that you´re going to have to go through me to get to him, right?" Jack´s words, delivered in the same pleasant tone of voice as most of the rest of his part of the conversation and accompanied by his right hand´s fingers gliding in a near-caress over the handle of the sword by his side, leave me close to thunderstruck. He cannot mean that! Surely he does not mean that – does he?

"Well, cap´n – that´s a shame, that is," and the youth´s fingers wrap themselves around the cutlass´ handle and he begins to draw it as he takes a step forward.

The ringing sound of a sword being drawn comes from behind us.

I twist my head to see, not wanting to die from a stab in the back never knowing who slew me – but the person who has drawn her blade is Anamaria and her menacing gaze is directed at he would-be mutineers, not Sparrow and me. Turning my head back I realize that the youth has halted – apparently he too has noted her gaze.

Slowly I look around and notice that not a single pirate on deck is not fondling his weapon, ready to draw it, if he has not already done so – and each and every one of them, both the original crew and the majority of the new arrivals, are clearly siding with their captain against the youth and his cronies. Suddenly I realize that the would-be mutineers does not even number an even dozen.

I look sideways at Sparrow, who has yet to stop staring into the eyes of the youth. Did he know that his crew would side with him? Surely he did – how else could he have remained so calm and collected during the whole thing? This man of all men would surely have displayed the nervousness I remember seeing in Port Royal if he had not known all along that he had the upper hand – or would he?

"Aye, 'tis a mighty big shame when a captain can´t give one of his men what he wants. Still, can´t be helped, eh?" Sparrow smiles, a golden set of shark´s teeth.

"As you say, cap´n. 'Tis a shame, but there´s nothing for it." The youth is nodding eagerly, his cronies mumbling their assent. His hand is far from his weapon and he looks like he would rather be anywhere else – but Sparrow is still staring into his eyes and it seems to me as if he is keeping the youth right there through the power of his gaze alone.

"Aye, a shame. Do you know what else is a shame, Mr. Hawkins?" and the youth is shaking his head, the self-certainty gone so completely that you would think it had never been there, telling his captain that no, he does not know what else is a shame.

"Mr. Hawkins, surely you can see that it is a terrible shame for a member of the crew to insult his own captain´s very fine guest, eh?" A brief pat on my shoulder seems most of all to be to add weight to this statement.

"Y-yes, cap´n – mighty shame." The youth is now standing alone, his compatriots having managed to fade into the crowd and truth be told he looks like he would dearly love to follow – but Sparrow´s gaze never wavers, never gives him the smallest chance.

"In fact, seems to me like the good Commodore deserves an apology, don´t you think, Mr. Hawkins?" and the youth agrees that yes, yes of course, as the captain said. Then he falls silent – and the silence stretches for a bit until Sparrow looses his patience and shouts: "Get on with it then, man!"

The youth turns to me, then, his eyes fixing on my face – eyes that are saying that this is all my fault, that he is going to get even, just I wait and see – but his mouth is shaping other, humbler words: "Mr. Commodore, sir – uhm, I´m sorry for calling ye a 'lily-livered lobster´" and then his eyes leave my face to stare straight down at the deck.

A discreet, but still painful kick on my shin from Sparrow draws my attention to the fact that I am expected to make some form of reply, so I manage to make the words "Apology accepted" come out of my mouth, using the same tone that I usually take with my subordinates.

Tension seems to lift and the youth starts to back away – until Sparrow stops him with a "And where do you think you´re off to?"

"Sorry, cap´n, I thought..." the youth nearly stammers.

"Aye, exactly, you -thought-," Sparrow interrupts. "Seems to me that you´ve been doing an awful lot of that lately – too much, perhaps? Can´t have been doing much work either, busy with all your big thoughts. So, perhaps you simply weren´t given enough work?"

"Cap´n?"

"Tell me, Mr. Hawkins, can you see all the sparkling brightwork on my fair ship?"

"N-no, cap´n," and I must agree with him – the Pearl is a dark, almost gloomy ship. Sparkling is not an attribute I would ascribe to any part of her.

"Well, best get to work then, eh?"

"Aye, cap´n," and the youth finally slinks away, but not without first sending me a look that makes me wish that Sparrow had been satisfied with the apology or, better yet, had let the matter rest altogether. Except that no captain can tolerate insubordination, apparently not even a pirate captain – and if young Mr. Hawkins had tried something similar in the Navy his punishment would have been a lot more final. Hard work – and the task Sparrow has assigned him is undoubtedly that – is nothing in comparison. Still, I fear I have acquired an enemy today – but then, I suppose he was my enemy long before I first set eyes on him. An unsettling thought.

"And the rest of you lazy mongrels can start swabbing the deck, savvy?" Sparrow shouts, obviously aimed at the men who backed up the youth. Then, without wasting any further time on that lot, he starts across the deck, tugging at my arm to get me moving.

"Come along, Commodore James – I think we´re going to start the tour below deck, eh?"

Thus begins perhaps the most remarkable guided tour of a ship I have ever experienced – not that I have experienced so very great a number, but still. As it turns out, Sparrow is an excellent guide – intimately familiar with his ship he knows every nook and cranny and is able to point out every small carving, every piece of workmanship that might be of interest to someone with a professional interest – and this is mixed with an interesting and mildly amusing collection of anecdotes. The only slightly unsettling thing is the way he will – from time to time – reach out and let his hand run over the dark wood in a caress that leaves me feeling like a voyeur for having witnessed it – though that is, of course, ridiculous.

As the tour progresses, I learn quite a bit about The Black Pearl. For instance, I learn that the hold is apparently fit to burst – not with swag or plunder or booty, but with wood and copper and hempen rope, sail cloth and tar and every other material one could possibly need when one is going to give a ship a long-overdue round of repairs, up to and including a spare mast or two. In one corner is an improvised pigsty – "Gibbs got homesick" – and a small collection of furniture which Sparrow admits to being the owner of is stored in another corner.

I also learn that the brig of the Pearl actually contains two cages for captives, but only the one that I have been occupying is any good – the door of the other seems to have been broken open in some violent manner in the recent past and only barely repaired. I learn that the Pearl has a small collection of cabins – each of them barely large enough to contain a bunk and a sea chest or two, and each one clearly claimed. I do my best to ignore the depraved possibilities that occur to me when I realize that at least two of the cabins have been claimed by two people, yet they show no sign of having arranged for extra sleeping accommodations. I learn that The Black Pearl´s complement of cannons are not the ragtag collection that most pirate and even some Navy ships are equipped with – rather they all share a number of traits that leave me guessing that they might very well have been mass-produced for a newly built ship – perhaps this very one. And I learn that although the ship is clearly the work of a master among shipbuilders, then she truly is badly in need of repairs – it is almost painfully obvious that Barbossa and his ilk did nothing more than what was absolutely necessary to keep her afloat. The state of the sweeps is a perfect example – some of them have broken and have simply been patched up, not replaced as they should have, and all are worn dangerously thin. And the seats – I am somehow convinced that even cursed pirates who could feel no pain must have been using several cushions each when the sweeps were employed.

Now, a ship is not really such a large space, and you would suppose that a tour of one would hardly be a matter of more than a few hours. But, as it turns out, the tour, though always remaining a such, also seems to serve as some form of inspection for Sparrow, some thorough cataloguing of every tiny flaw that needs to be repaired. He dwells on every damage, touching and thinking out loud and inviting me to share my professional opinion as a fellow man of the sea – and sometimes I forget myself and do so, despite how very inappropriate it is for a Commodore to offer a pirate such advice.

And then of course there are the introductions.

The first time Sparrow stops me in front of one of his crewmembers it catches me by surprise, but it very quickly becomes an odd sort of routine interrupting the guided tour every five or six minutes. Sparrow will offer a surprisingly proper introduction – "Commodore James, allow me to introduce you to the good Mr. Matelot. Mr. Matelot, I want you to meet Commodore Norrington of His Majesty´s Royal Navy" – whereupon we will exchange some small and reasonably polite greeting – varying from "Hello Mr. Commodore" to "Avast! Shiver me timbers! Arrgh!" Then we will shake hands – I and whoever I am being introduced to – and each and every one of them seems to be of the opinion that the best way to show a man of the Navy their lack of respect and fear is to have a firm handshake. A very firm handshake. I swear, once or twice I can literally _hear_ the small bones in my hand grinding together.

After about seven introductions two things have happened: one, I am already nursing my hand, halfway dreading the next handshake and the next and the next... and two, I have realized Sparrow´s reason for changing my status – it came to me while a giant of a man with several metal rings in his ears, eyebrows, lips and nose was busily trying to turn my hand to dust, his eyes dark with hostility.

The reason is surprisingly simple, but at the same time slightly brilliant: he is using me to gauge his new crew, to see which of them will be willing to obey even an unpopular order – and which will not. And if he can get to amuse himself by messing with my mind whilst doing it – well, why should he refrain?

I cannot say the realization does anything for my sense of self-esteem, but at least it solves the mystery of Sparrow´s decision.

And so I follow the pirate through the bowels of the ship, pausing quite often for various reasons, until finally, after a time span roughly twice as long as I would have expected a tour of the entire ship to take, we emerge unto the deck, where more of the same awaits us – but at least in fresh air. Sparrow proceeds with touching everything, one time even hanging in front of the figure head, his legs wrapped tightly around the lady´s waist, his hands moving over voluptuous wood in a manner that would have earned him at the very least a slap if the lady in question had been of flesh and blood. Then we proceed to the masts and rigging, which I am greatly relieved to discover are in a somewhat less poor state of repair than most of the rest of the ship – relieved due to the fact that Sparrow insists that we climb them.

And so we end up sitting on the yardarm of the mainmast, me to the right and Sparrow to the left of it with a basket full of food somehow suspended between us, the setting sun turning the sea to blood as far as the eye can see.

"So, Commodore James, now that you´ve had a chance to get a proper look-see at my ship, tell me, what do you think of her?" The question is posed in a manner that would seem indifferent – between two bites of roast chicken – except that the way he glances at me reveals it to actually be of some importance to him.

"Well," I start, taking some time to figure out what my answer is going to be (and whether I want to opt for honesty or flattery – that is, until I realize that my answer in both cases will be the same), "she is – as you yourself have said – badly in need of repairs, but underneath that... She is a very fine ship, Captain Sparrow, very fine indeed. I am not sure when last I saw another quite as fine," and that is the truth, much as I hate to admit it. Oh, the Dauntless, the Interceptor, the Hippolytos and all the other ships I have served on in the course of my career – and there have been a few – were certainly fine ships, but still, there is something about the Pearl, something indefinable but undeniable – something that in some way reminds me of the swords young Mr. Turner keeps turning out in his master´s name...

"Aye, she´s a lovely lass, isn´t she?" and Sparrow pats the mast affectionately, smiling – and what a smile it is. Not a grin or a leer or a smirk, no – this is a smile of sheer delight and as stupid as any such smile will ever be. I am stunned to see it grace Jack´s features, but only for a moment – then I begin to wonder if he really is so delighted by such a small thing – an honest compliment paid not to him, but to his vessel. It seems as though he makes even less sense to me now than at the beginning of this 'grand adventure´.

When we first met on the docks of Port Royal he was easy to classify: a buffoon, a swaying clown – and a pirate. All of which made it easy for me to mock him and dismiss him – even though I had heard of him.

And yes, of course I had heard him – anyone with any sort of interest in pirates have heard of the nearly legendary Captain Jack Sparrow. I had – out of purely professional interest – heard all of the tales that Miss Swann had so eagerly devoured and then some, and if not for a few official reports verifying his existence I would have presumed that the man portrayed in those stories (one half of which contradicts the other and a third of them are just plain impossible, though which third might have to be reconsidered in light of recent events) was the figment of some sailor´s ripe imagination, could not possibly be a real man.

I will never admit to actually having been somewhat disappointed at the reality I saw lying on the filthy floor of Mr. Brown´s smithy.

Of course he then proceeded to escape and exhibit remarkable cunning and skill as the world seemed to turn into one of the more fanciful and easily dismissed of his adventures, filled with daring and swashbuckling battles, young love and ancient curses. But when all was said and done he was once more my captive and set to be hanged.

Whereupon the bloody rascal immediately escaped – again – even managing to take me captive in the process, turning the tables. And since then he has managed to keep me constantly uncertain about what he will do next, because one moment he will act the genial host and the next moment he will have me flogged and the next... but that is neither here nor there.

It occurs to me that I have absolutely no idea who this Jack Sparrow truly is. I wonder if anyone does?

"Guinea for your thoughts?"

"Beg pardon?" I say, turning to look at Sparrow, trying as best I can to hide the confusion that comes from having your thoughts suddenly and rudely interrupted.

"Well, they seemed like some mighty heavy thoughts, Commodore James – thought it only proper to up the price a bit, savvy?" A gold coin rolls between his fingers and his usual smirk-like grin is back in its proper place. "So, guinea for your thoughts?" and his hand extends, offering me the coin.

I find myself in a bit of a quandary (and hurriedly drink a mouthful of the contents of the hip flask that Sparrow handed me before we climbed up here to cover it – thankfully it turns out to contain water with only a hint of the flask´s usual contents and not the pure rum I had feared) – because there is certainly no way that I am going to tell him what I was really thinking, but on the other hand I cannot claim I was thinking of nothing and I suppose it would be rude – as well as ill-advised – to simply deny his request. So, I will need something else to mention, but what, what... oh. Yes, that will do just nicely.

"My thoughts were hardly worth a guinea, Sparrow – I was simply wondering about your flag."

"My flag? Well, what about it?" and I can tell that he can tell that I am being less than honest – hopefully he will be gracious about it.

"Yes, your flag. I was just wondering whether there might be some reason why you sail under Rackham´s flag – or did your name use to be Calico in another life?" Not what I was truly wondering, but it is one of the many little mysteries surrounding Sparrow – and perhaps even one that he will be willing to explain?

"Nay, I´m not Calico Jack – for one thing I only have one woman pirate aboard, eh? But the why of it – now thereby hangs a tale," and while he speaks he first places the coin in my hand, closing my fingers around it, then leans back to look up at the object in question, flapping over our heads.

"That never seems to stop you," I prod, hoping to distract him completely from the matter of my thoughts.

"No, it doesn´t, does it? Well, you see, Commodore James, back the first time I was captain of the Pearl I used to fly the Jolly Roger – you know, the good ol´ skull and crossbones. Nothing fancy, but it got the job done, eh? Always meant to get a flag of my very own, same as all those other pirates you always hear about, but somehow I never got 'round to it.

Anyway, one time we joined up with three other pirate ships to take us a lovely Spaniard – a treasure ship, savvy? – and as it happened, one of those ships was captained by ol´ Rackham. Bit confusing, really – having two Captain Jacks and all.

So, we find ourselves the Spaniard – and she was quite the appetizing little morsel, let me tell ye – and a feisty one too, as it turned out. Pretty soon the cannon balls were a-flying. When all was said and done my Pearl had had a pretty rough time of it – you see, she was the biggest of the four ships and therefore the easiest to hit. Lots of holes in my poor girl. There was even some stray cannon ball that ruined my last Jolly Roger.

Ah, but the booty, Commodore James – the booty was fine indeed, even split four ways. And since the Pearl had gotten the most holes, ol´ Jack here got all the swag in her captain´s cabin: crystal chandelier and such things. All in all, a fine raid.

So, we said our goodbyes and farewells to each other, me and the other captains, and we sailed of, each in our own direction – but before we did, ol´ Rackham, who really was what a fine upstanding gentleman such as yourself would call a 'capital fellow´, he gave me one of his own flags to replace the one I´d lost. After all, 'tis not proper for a pirate ship to sail without a pirate flag – feels as wrong as if one of your admirals were to walk around on deck in the buff, eh?

Now, I think I mentioned my Pearl having had a rough time of it, eh, so I elected to have her sailed to a proper shipyard for some proper repairs, since we had the money and all. As it turned out that would take a month or two, so most of the crew took their shares of the loot and went off to find themselves other things to do – I´m pretty sure one of them opened the fanciest inn in all of Tortuga.

Anyway, ol´ Jack was left with just a handful of men – one of which happened to be my good mate Bootstrap Bill Turner, whom I´m sure you´ve heard about – and a lot of time and gold on my hands.

Now, drinking and swiving is all well and fine for a bit, but soon you start to long for the sea again – and since my Pearl was dry-docked, I had to find something to do to pass the time, and so I started to go through the Spanish captain´s things. Most of it was what you´d expect – valuables and charts and suchlike. There was two things that caught my interest, though – a compass that simply refused to point north and an old book in Spanish, which turned out to be the journal of one Padre Amaro, all about why and how and where he´d gone with a certain Hernando Cortez... savvy?

As it turned out, the plunder didn´t last me so very long, so when my Pearl was all shipshape I was pretty eager to set sail for La Isla de Muerta to see if the good Padre´s stories held any truth. Alas, my crew was hardly big enough to handle the ship in rough weather, so first stop was Tortuga, to pick up some men. Didn´t even stop to get myself a new flag, just kept flying ol´ Calico´s, that´s how much of a hurry I was in.

Now, in Tortuga I met this friendly fellow who bought me a drink and told me that he and a bunch of his mates were looking for a ship that´d have 'em – and like the fool I was I took them onboard and let them sign the articles. And aye, before you ask, his name was Barbossa.

Won´t bore you with all the details – suffice is to say that when next I saw my lovely Pearl, nearly a decade later, she was still flying the same flag. I guess 'Captain´ Barbossa hadn´t had the time to get himself another.

You already know how I got her back and all, so I´ll skip that part too. And now I´m back aboard and I really should have gotten myself a new Jolly Roger in Tortuga, but as it turns out I was in a bit of a hurry to get out of there before your Navy boys decided to give it another go at freeing you, so I plain forgot.

But 'tis nice of you to remind me, Commodore James, mighty nice of you indeed," Sparrow finishes with that curious little bow of his which looks somewhat hazardous at this height. Then he takes the basket (now only containing a couple of empty hip flasks) and climbs down to the deck. I follow his movements until he vanishes in the darkness that has somehow managed to arrive unnoticed while Sparrow told his tale.

I cannot help but feel that there is something odd about this story of Sparrow´s. It is not that it is any more or less believable than most of his other stories, because it is not – nor is it the weaving in of verifiable fact, because that too has so far been his custom. It is not the delivery, either – this tale was told with the usual flourishes and gestures, rolls of eyes and smirks, nods and involvement of props, just like every other story he has taken the time to tell me so far. And yet there is something about this particular story that is different, but I cannot seem to put my finger on what.

Might it simply have been the truth?

The yawn that interrupts my musings are not exactly a surprise – I have been feeling the tiredness gradually spreading through me while Sparrow spoke. Still, it is the yawn that manages to convince me that it might be wise to head down and find out about what sleeping arrangements Sparrow has in mind for me – before I fall asleep and fall...

As I enter the cabin I am greeted by an obviously similarly weary Sparrow, who somehow manages to find the energy to grin at me: "Ah, there you are, Commodore James. Was beginning to think you were planning to roost for the night."

"No, Captain Sparrow, no roosting for me, though I must confess to being tired. If I could trouble you to tell me where I am supposed to sleep?"

"Why, in the bed, Commodore James," and he gestures grandly towards it.

"I see. And where are you planning to spend the night, Captain Sparrow?" I ask, already quite certain what the answer will be.

"Why, in my bed, Commodore James."

"That – that is simply not acceptable."

"Why not? 'Tis the nicest bed aboard – truth be told the only bed, but still. And I did promise you a comfortable place to sleep, eh?" Be that as it may, I have no desire to share a bed with Sparrow again.

"That you did, but I was hoping you might be referring to one of the cabins."

"Sorry, mate – all of them are spoken for and I´m not going to throw anybody out of bed at this hour. Though if you want to try and persuade Anamaria to share her bunk with you, then be my guest." The thought of sharing accommodations with that particular member of the crew sends a shiver down my spine – personally I would vastly prefer to wake up in one piece, let alone alive.

"In that case, surely you have a hammock somewhere that I might be allowed to make use of?" I try to reason.

"Sorry, Commodore James, we´re fresh out of hammocks," he smiles and we both know that it is a lie – no ship with respect for itself does not have several spare hammocks. But it would seem that Sparrow is determined that our sleeping arrangements must be as he wants them.

"Why are you so very much against sharing a bed with ol´ Jack? I don´t remember you making such a fuss yester eve..."

"Last night you got me drunk, Sparrow, or have you forgotten that?"

"Oh well, if that´s all there is too it I have a lovely bottle of Madeira over here – but I must say, if we have to go through this every night you´re going to end up a worse tosspot than me come the end of our voyage."

He is already busily digging out the promised beverage when I raise my hands as if to ward him off and tell him no, I do not want him to get me drunk again. I simply do not want to share the bed with him.

"But why not?" he practically whines. "'Tis not like I´m a bad bedfellow – don´t trash around or anything. I don´t even snore – unlike some people." The last bit is said with a pointed look in my direction which makes me send him a look.

"Sparrow, I do not snore!"

"'Course you don´t, Commodore James," he agrees so serenely that I half suspect him of having told the truth – and unfortunately it is not like it is impossible. I fail to remember when last I was in a position when somebody might have been able to tell me – apart from this man, that is, this man who is presently making himself comfortable in the bed.

"Or perhaps you´re worried that ol´ Jack won´t be able to keep his fingers to himself, eh?"

I nearly demand an explanation for that statement, then, realizing what he is implying, I actually take a step backwards.

"That´s it, isn´t it?" and he nearly jumps out of bed as though he has made a great discovery and is thrilled by it – though truth be told, the thought of having something to fear from Sparrow in such a manner had not occurred to me. Somehow, despite – or perhaps due to – his odd behaviour, I have at no point been intimidated by that particular aspect of it – the thought has simply been too incredible.

As it still is, I realize, as I watch Sparrow pick up my sword and head back for bed.

"Tell you what, Commodore James – I´m going to put this here pretty sword in the middle of the bed, so you can be sure I´ll stay on my side, savvy?" and he places the gleaming blade on top of the covers. "See – everything´s fine, eh?"

I shake my head – no, it is not 'fine´. "Come now, Commodore - 'tis traditional. All those tragic lads and lasses who end bedding their own siblings and running around like wolves and such did it like this."

Yet despite of Sparrow´s words I still shake my head – whatever dislike of the idea that I felt when he first proposed it has hardened into stubbornness. I watch him pat the pillow that I am expected to put my head on, telling me how very nice and soft it is, but I still shake my head.

"Come to bed, James." Voice low and – alluring? – but still I refuse.

"Sparrow, if – if there are no other possible available accommodations, then surely I can go down to the brig and sleep in the hammock there?"

For a long moment Sparrow just stares at me.

"So, let me see if I´ve understood you correctly, Commodore James. You´d turn down the nicest, softest, most comfortable place to sleep on the whole ship in favour of a hammock in a cold and damp brig? And people call me crazy," and with that parting shot he pulls the blanket tight around himself, turning his back to me and going to sleep – or at least a passable imitation thereof.

I wait for a little bit, fully expecting him to sit back up and resume his attempt to sway me. But he does not.

With a sigh I resign myself to retire to the brig, but after having taken a couple of steps towards the door I suddenly hear a most unexpected sound that makes me look back. Apparently Sparrow was less than honest about his nighttime noisiness.

He does look awfully comfortable in that bed, sprawling across the half of it he has claimed. Is it any wonder that I am less than enthusiastic about the hammock – has been all along on account of my back – and the sight of Jack like this does nothing to remedy it.

I turn, considering – what is really so terrible about sharing Sparrow´s bed? It is quite big enough for two, so that is not an issue. Is it Sparrow himself, then, my strange 'host´? And if so, what is it about him? Certainly not his personal hygiene – he is as clean as I am today.

Nor is it what he himself suggested. After all, he might be amused by toying with me, but I have no impression of him being in any way serious about it. And even if he was, well – out of all the crimes I have heard of being attributed to Sparrow, ravishing has not been mentioned even once.

Which is not to say that I believe Sparrow to be a monk. I have heard the stories of Captain Jack Sparrow – even the tales told at the dock inns late at night, tales that would never reach the ears of a young lady like Miss Swann. Stories about a couple of grooms whose blushing virgin brides were less virginal after having enjoyed his hospitality, not to mention the tale of a blushing virgin bride who had a similar complaint about her comely young groom. Still, those stories never as much as hinted that there had been any kind of force involved.

Of course, all such thoughts are ridiculous – the lightly snoring Sparrow seems quite content to ignore such games at the moment, and besides, even if he was not, then I somehow doubt that he would display any interest in playing them with me.

Why should he, when nobody else ever does?

So it all boils down to the fact that it is not proper for a Commodore to share a pirate´s bed – but then, neither is it proper for a Commodore to be a pirate´s guest.

And that bed really looks quite comfortable.

Sparrow´s snoring ceases as I lie down. I have no doubt that a self-satisfied smirk has appeared to grace his features, but I do not turn to look.


	8. A Small Matter of Articles, or Monkey Business

It is, of course, ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

I am – no matter what word Sparrow chooses to apply – a captive aboard The Black Pearl. So why should I have any reason whatsoever to feel like I am being lazy? It makes no sense. And yet, as the days pass and it begins to once again feel like this sea and this ship is all the world there is and ever has been, I slowly begin to feel exactly that.

Of course, it does not help that my days are spent lounging in the sun, trying to read some book or other from Jack´s sea chest. All too often my concentration fails me and I end up watching the crew at their work – as busy as any ship´s crew anywhere can be.

Part of the problem is, of course, that since the first time I set foot on a Navy ship as little more than a boy I have not tried to be a mere passenger. And so, now that I have finally found myself in a position of having absolutely no work or responsibility, I feel terribly, sinfully slothful – and illogically guilty about it.

The fact that the entire crew has somehow come to the decision that the best way of dealing with me is to quite simply ignore me altogether is not particularly uplifting either. I suppose that the lack of death threats and hostile glances ought to come as a relief, but the cold indifference only adds to my feeling of isolation and guilt.

Sometimes the need for simply talking with another human being drives me to seek out Jack - who I sincerely doubt will ever as much as consider not talking to anybody – just to alleviate the need a bit. But often he is to be found at the helm, guiding his ship on her course, and as per our agreement I cannot approach him there.

Not that anybody else is allowed near him at the helm either – in fact, I have the distinct impression that wherever we are headed is as great a mystery to the other pirates as it is to me. Sparrow handles any course change in splendid isolation, only letting Anamaria or Mr. Cotton take over at the helm when none such are needed – or that is, at least, my impression.

Sometimes I try to figure out where we are – and more importantly where we are going. I will summon up a map of the region inside my mind and try to calculate where on it we must be. My best guess always puts us in the middle of nowhere, but then, my guesses are made more difficult by the fact that all I have to go on is a very rough estimate of the speed of the Pearl (since measuring it regularly does not seem to be considered part of the normal routine aboard), the number of days since we set sail from Tortuga and the fact that we, judging by the sun, are moving in a somewhat northerly direction, though I would need a compass to say with any certainty.

But even with all of my reservations I still manage to conclude that we are in the middle of nothing but sea and sea and then some sea – an impression confirmed by what my eyes tell me, even from the crow´s nest. But then, Sparrow did claim that we are headed for yet another 'island that cannot be found´ - I suppose it would be foolish to expect such a place to show up on any ordinary map. The Isle of the Dead was certainly not on any chart I have ever seen.

And when I am not trying to read or musing over our mystery destination, I find myself thinking about Jack Sparrow.

"How´s it going, Commodore James?" the object of speculation will occasionally interrupt me, pausing on his sashaying way to or fro. But a ship´s captain is ever busy and he rarely has time for more than a few brief remarks before being called away – to check on the course or oversee the adjustment of a sail or sort out some minor squabble between some of his men (and quite often his woman).

Lonely my days may be, but never my evenings, never my nights. When time comes for dinner Jack will without fail join me in his cabin. Somehow we manage to settle into a kind of routine.

Jack will arrive at the cabin shortly after darkness falls, bringing with him whatever the day´s evening meal consists of. At this point I will join him there – unless I have already retired to the cabin as is often the case – and the meal will be passed making polite conversation. He will tell his tall tales and in between, we will speak of other, hopefully neutral subjects – be it the weather or – as happens at least once – a surprisingly lively argument over the best way to arrange the sails of a ship or some similar subject of pure, mutual professional interest. Though one time I find that I have somehow managed to move from an exchange about what the most favourable route is for crossing the Atlantic to telling about the first time I met Eliza – Miss Swann, how lovely she already was back then, how you could see in her all the latent traits that would later be fully developed in the grown woman.

As soon as I realize what I am saying I stop talking – clam up, actually, and well enough to outdo any oyster. At least Sparrow does not try to make me say any more about the subject – he was probably bored by it anyway.

Once our plates are empty or the conversation has grown uncomfortable, we will move to the bed and make ourselves comfortable in opposite ends of it, and then Jack will read to me. Shakespeare and Marlowe and others while away our evenings until sleep comes to claim us. Every night I find myself surprised anew at exactly how wide-ranging Jack´s selection of voices for the characters of the plays are. Whether it be doomed Faustus, brutish Caliban or fair Juliet, he always seem to have the perfect voice for the part.

I cannot fathom why Sparrow bothers to read to me, cannot see what is in it for him, but for my own part I find myself enjoying this part of the day so much that I will occasionally catch myself looking forward to the moment when Jack will put down his mug of rum and go dig out the evening´s entertainment from his sea chest. I imagine it must mainly be because the whole situation reminds me of my childhood, long years before I grew used to breathing salty air, that I enjoy it so.

Still, it is with some regret that I see it change nearly a week out from Tortuga. One day Sparrow selects a book in French – earlier in the day his usual greeting is on one occasion replaced with "Ça va, mon cher James?" to which I reply "Ça va bien, Capitaine Moineau, merci." He just grins and leaves before I have a chance to realize what we both just said – I just shake my head and dismiss the whole thing as yet another one of his many eccentricities.

But that evening I find myself listening to Jack´s fluid French – his skill with the language does not really surprise me. After all, he seems to possess so many other talents – why should a fairly ordinary language be considered remarkable?

Alas, the actual choice of book is less fortunate than usual – out of all the intriguing possibilities Sparrow has settled for a story about a man who flies to the moon. It is at once quite ridiculous, somewhat thought-provoking and slightly improper, but I am simply not in the mood for that sort of tale. Perhaps Jack senses this, for he mixes the reading with brief anecdotes about the author – a Frenchman whose pen was as mighty as his sword, and the only thing mightier than either was, alas, his nose. These briefer tales he also interrupts regularly to make a number of short and not entirely polite remarks about the French in general (a number of which leaves me wondering whether he might imagine that French women have certain rare abilities usually only attributed to one particular biblical lady – or maybe he simply believes that the French men are as horned as Scottish highland cattle).

But despite of all of Sparrow´s tale-spinning, I still find my mind wandering.

The sound of a book being slammed shut makes me look up – straight into Jack´s eyes.

"You´re bored." More statement than accusation and not the least bit upset, strangely enough.

"I must confess I find your choice for the evening less – riveting than usual."

"Is that so? Well, maybe I´m growing tired of reading to ye all the time? Maybe I´m not so good at picking a good book any longer?" and he cocks his head, regarding me calmly – I wonder if this is going to be the end of our pleasant evenings – "Or mayhaps ol´ Jack just thinks 'tis your turn to read to him, eh?"

Well, I suppose I should have expected that Sparrow would eventually grow bored with the monotony of it – and truth be told it is hardly an unreasonable demand. "Very well, then."

"Eh?"

"Very well, then, I will read to you, if that is what you want – as long as you find another book."

I see Jack smiling in something that might be triumph, but I do not overtly mind – after all, I have my own tiny triumph to savour: it is – sadly – not every day that I have to clarify myself to him.

"Still trust ol´ Jack´s taste, do ye?"

"You are the only one who knows what might be buried in that chest of your´s – and I expect the change in circumstances will have a beneficial effect on your skill at literary selection."

My reply simply makes his grin widen before he gets up and walks to the library sea chest. Barely a minute later he returns carrying an uncommonly thick book, which is promptly dropped in my lap, whereupon he makes himself comfortable once again.

I take a brief moment to steel myself, to take a deep breath and send up a prayer to whatever friendly deity might be bothered to listen to the effect that I sincerely hope that Sparrow has not chosen some – improper book for the sheer, perverse pleasure of making me read it. The unmarked leather cover offers no clue as to the nature of the material found within.

I open the book and turn to the first page – eventually. Then I blink and look again. Choosing a couple of pages at random I look at them too, then eventually up at my host.

"Sparrow, this book is in Spanish."

"Aye, Commodore James – knew I couldn´t keep that from you, smart fellow that you are." His smile is lazy and he still looks remarkably like a small boy about to have a story read to him.

"Sparrow, I cannot read Spanish." Confessing this to a man who probably can – why else would he have a book in the bloody language? – is highly embarrassing, especially since it is this particular man, and earlier – much earlier – I thought him a fool.

"What d´you mean, you can´t read Spanish?" He has straightened and is now leaning in to peer at my face.

"I mean that I cannot read Spanish, so I suggest you find another book," and I hope that will be enough to divert Sparrow´s attention – alas, no such luck.

"But you´re the Commodore! You´re the boss of half the British Navy in the Caribbean, mate!" I hear the incredulity in his voice.

"Glad you noticed."

"But how can you manage without Spanish, Commodore James? I mean, there´s a reason why they call it the Spanish Main, you know?" Of course the embarrassing thing is that the scallywag has a point.

"Interpreters, Sparrow, when the business is official. And usually some of my subordinates have a sufficient grasp of the language to allow me to make do if the need arises."

Sparrow is still looking at me as though he cannot believe his own ears – I am strongly tempted to shout at him, something to the effect that we cannot all be polyglot pirates. Besides, I know several tongues – French, Dutch, a little Latin – what does it matter that this particular one does not happen to be among them?

"So, basically, you have to trust some bumbling fool to pick the right words for you when you have to handle the competition, eh?"

"That is one way of putting it, yes. Now can we please stop talking about this?"

For a moment he regards me, quietly, and I almost think my request has been granted, but then he moves. "Move over, Commodore James, and hand me that book." I obey and find myself sitting thigh to thigh with the pirate, who is busily thumbing through the book, dismissing chapter after chapter with comments like "too dull, too long, too short…"

"What are you doing, Sparrow?"

"I´m picking a good chapter for you to read, mate."

"Sparrow, I just told you that I cannot read Spanish."

"Aye, I heard you, and that just won´t do – that´s why I´m gonna teach you, savvy?" Now it is my turn to disbelieve – Jack Sparrow? Teach me Spanish?

"Ah, this is a good one," and beringed fingers smoothen a slightly creased page. "Now, I´m gonna start reading this to you and tell you what the words mean, and then you try afterwards, savvy?"

"Sparrow, this is ridiculous…"

"I asked, do you savvy?"

"Yes," and I turn that yes into a long-suffering sigh.

That night I lie awake in the darkness for an hour or more, listening to Sparrow´s steady breathing, while the Spanish words for knight and nag, giant and windmill whirl around inside my head.

And so a new routine is formed, where the reading is replaced with lessons. Truth be told, I suspect that Jack is a fairly good teacher, but that does not prevent me from feeling less than enthusiastic about these evenings – apparently he simply cannot accept that it might take more than a single appearance of any given word before it sticks in my mind. He reminds me somewhat of my old school teachers in that regard, though thankfully Sparrow does not see the pedagogical value of the cane – that would make this whole thing too humiliating.

What keeps me from succumbing completely to an intense dislike of the evenings in the light of these lessons is the fact that every few days Jack will revert to the previous pattern and find us a nice English book, although now we take turns reading from it. Well, that and the fact that after a week of Sparrow´s teaching I surprise myself by actually stringing together something very much resembling a proper sentence.

So, the evenings remain, if not solely pleasant, at least tolerable. The mornings are a different matter altogether.

First of all there are the dreams. What they are dreams of I cannot say, for they fade upon waking, leaving only feelings behind. Nonetheless I have the distinct impression that they ought to leave me feeling vaguely disgusted, perhaps even downright appalled at what my nighttime mind has to offer, that I ought to recoil from them and try as hard as possible to distance myself from them. But the problem is that they do not inspire those feelings in me – quite the contrary. I wake up feeling a vague regret that the dream is over. At least once I simply close my eyes and go right back to sleep (there is no set wake-up time for Jack´s guest, apparently, so I am left to sleep as late as I please in the morning – a most uncommon experience).

In the mornings my mind is too muddled by sleep for me to actually worry about this state of affairs – during the day it is much clearer and find itself sufficiently unoccupied to do so.

More immediately stressing in the mornings is something that occurs for the first time on the third day out from Tortuga. I open my eyes – and back away, hurriedly (and briefly grateful that Sparrow has not made a habit out of placing my sword in the middle of the bed) and accompanying the movement with a wordless exclamation. Then I glare at the offender, sitting on the bed with a smug expression on the face.

Peals of laughter sound behind me accompanied by faint jingling. "You really shouldn´t growl at Gold, Commodore James – 'tis but a token of love, savvy?"

"What it is, Sparrow, is a rat. A dead rat. And not even a whole one," I qualify my statement, directing one last glare at the small, grey-striped feline before turning it at Sparrow.

"Aye, that´s what I said. After all, she -is- a cat, mate. What d´ye expect, flowers?" and he chuckles as he steps around the bed to pet the animal, which leans purringly into his touch. "He´s a difficult one, isn´t he, my little darling? You bring him breakfast in bed and do you get as much as a thank you? No," and picking up the animal he exits the cabin, still informing it what an ungrateful wretch I am, leaving me to breakfast tray.

Next morning the little scene repeats itself, apart from the fact that this time the cat is orange and answers to the name of Silver.

Silver and Gold, now there is a pair of the finest rascals I ever did see, but an endearing pair at that. They manage to charm the entire crew in a matter of less than two days, making even hardened sailors offer them choice bites from their own plates. And everybody tries to name them – Kydd and Kitty, Miss and Missy, Bastet and Sekhmet, even Arrgh Scurvy and Arrgh Shiver. Who the first person is to actually call them Silver and Gold is a mystery to me, although it would not surprise me to learn that Sparrow is to blame – especially considering the paradox inherent in the names – but soon everybody follows suit, myself included, although there is some initial confusion, since the more logical thinkers amongst the crew naturally expects the name and the cat to actually match (fortunately the crew does not contain that many logical thinkers).

A pair of feline scallywags they most certainly are, stealing from my plate at almost every meal and lying in wait to make a man trip over them, not to mention bringing gift vermin to me almost every morning (except for those mornings when I have finally grown to expect it – then, of course, I wake up to an empty pillow). Still, I forgive them – if only because they are the only living things aboard, apart from Jack, who are willing to offer me their company. Besides, I doubt any man would not be charmed by a purring, soft, warm body in his lap, even if it belongs to someone with mischievous brown – I mean green-gold eyes.

But the scare the cats´ 'tokens of love´ give me are nothing compared to the morning when I find that I have somehow managed to – to tangle with Jack during the night.

My first instinct is to cry out and back away – same as when faced with my feline friends´ presents – but I manage to suppress the instinct before actually doing so. Then I notice that Jack is apparently still fast asleep – breathing slowly and regularly, his face more relaxed than I have ever seen it – and I have never really looked at it before – not like this, barely an inch or two apart, his soft breath tickling my lips, and without his eyes looking back at me. Not like this, relaxed, unguarded, oddly naked. I notice that there are lines in his face, at the eyes, hidden under layers of kohl – why have I not seen that before?

What finally makes me move is the thought of Sparrow waking up and finding us lying like this – his arm slung around my shoulders, mine around his waist, our legs tangled together, one of his beaded braids resting cool and firm on my cheek. Slowly, slowly, and oh so very carefully I disentangle us – inch by inch by careful inch, freezing every time Sparrow makes the slightest noise, and also careful not to put myself in a position where my back will cause me any discomfort. And then, when we are almost fully parted, Jack rolls over in such a way that we are basically back where we started.

Eventually I manage to separate us and I curl up, trying to get a bit more sleep – for though it is morning it is also very early. Yet I find that I cannot take my eyes off of my bedfellow and that I feel the loss of physical proximity surprisingly sharply – I tell myself firmly that it is simply due to the fact that I have not slept with anybody like that for years and years and I probably miss it…

I lie awake, silently cursing Sparrow – why could he not have continued to place the sword between us? Then this would never have happened. When morning comes in full and his eyes open I squeeze mine shut and pretend to be asleep until I hear him leave the cabin – I am not sure whether I could bear to face him just then, though why exactly that is so I do not know.

All that day I find myself constantly expecting Sparrow to make some reference to the bygone night – some half-veiled remark, or, possibly, just a knowing glance – but nothing of the sort ever happens. Which does not stop me from worrying – what if Sparrow was not really asleep after all? What if he was simply pretending? What if he knows? And what would make such knowledge on his part beyond embarrassing is the fact that it was not on my side of the bed that we lay.

But as much as I worry and as much as I watch him for the slightest sign, I never see a single one. So, perhaps he truly was asleep?

If my evenings and mornings can be said to be eventful, then my days form the perfect contrast, for they are as endlessly repeated as the sea surrounding us. I find myself missing the simple task of keeping the log book, of putting down in short, precise words the details that separate any given day from every other. At the moment I am no longer sure what date it is, let alone what day of the week – and aboard the Pearl there are no Sunday sermons to put me back on track. And I refuse to ask, refuse to admit to myself as well as to anyone else – and especially not to Sparrow – that I am beginning to feel lost outside of time.

From the endless repetition of days – sometimes it feels like it really is the same day being repeated again and again, as if God has need of extra time elsewhere and decided to take it from us – a few rise up, marked by events to be memorable, for better or for worse.

Worse – worse is the day that a sudden gust of wind catches a crewman by surprises, causing him to lose his grip on the riggings. The inhuman scream he makes upon descending is cut short by a sick, crunching noise that seems to reach every corner of the ship in the sudden silence. I watch, later, as he is sewn into his own hammock and given a burial at sea, an unusually solemn Jack Sparrow overseeing the proceedings (and quelling the mumbling about bad luck as well as the angry glances in my direction (for my presence at this ceremony does not seem to be appreciated by all the men, though Sparrow insisted on it) with a single look).

That night Jack reads to me from Hamlet – the part about the undiscovered country – but instead of getting into bed afterwards he leaves the cabin to join the drunken revelry up on deck – a wake, I suppose – shouting and stamping and singing and the faintest hint of – drums?

I lie alone in the dark, wondering at the look in Jack´s eyes as he read – is he grieving for this man? And if so, then why? After all, death is a sailor´s lot in life – if not by accident, then in battle against either some human foe or the weather and the sea herself. If a captain were to grieve for every life lost on his vessel, then surely he would soon break. And besides, it is not like he was anyone special, this man – not even a member of Jack´s original crew, just one of those he picked up in Tortuga. So why?

I try to remember what little I knew of the dead man – he was black, like a large part of the crew, but unlike most of them he had no brands or scars to mark him as a runaway slave – at least as far as I could tell. Rather I dimly recall noting a lazy pride in his eyes when I was introduced to him, akin to the pride that I have always imagined the great jungle cats must feel. I try to remember a name to go with the face, but in vain – there were far too many names that day. They all seem to glide into each other. Something exotic, perhaps?

The next day at noon Sparrow handles the auctioning off of Tom the Gunner´s property before the mast – and then the ship returns to her routine. Not once does anybody mention the deceased – it feels as if he was never even here. Perhaps he was not – perhaps it was the heat of the sun playing tricks on my mind. Perhaps…

Better to remember is the day when suddenly a haphazard symphony of clicks and squeals and splashes announces that we have been graced with the company of a dolphin pod. The crew cluster by the railings, chattering excitedly amongst themselves while admiring the sleek animals. I hear Mr. Gibbs informing some young man that dolphins are the very best of luck a ship can have, and I see Anamaria throw down a glittering fish – a particularly magnificent leap is used by the very smallest dolphin to assure itself the easy meal. And even I find that the corners of my lips – as if of their volition – seem to be curving slightly upwards.

I hear the solid splash moments before realizing that the golden-brown blur out of the corner of my eye is in fact one stark naked Jack Sparrow, and by then the dolphins are already gathering to get a closer look at their guest. Apparently he is acceptable to them, because they quickly resume their playing – with Jack as a participant.

"Oy, ye lazy mutts, come down 'ere!" he shouts to the crew on the deck during a lull, but the only answer he gets is laughter, scattered and somewhat nervous. It would appear that there is a limit to what Sparrow´s men are willing to do for him.

"Commodore James, why don´t you come down 'ere? The water´s great!" Is it my imagination or can I actually see the sunlight´s gleaming in his gold teeth even from this distance?

"I am afraid I must decline, Captain Sparrow," I call back, barely containing my laughter – something the people around me make absolutely no attempt to do – now that it is no longer them being invited. Sparrow offers no more invitations, but shrugs and turns back to his playmates. For the next hour or so we are treated to the sight of a pirate tumbling and diving among the friendly animals, occasionally even being pulled along by one. The sunlight causes the drops of water on all of them to sparkle, making it seem like they are covered in liquid diamonds. It is a strangely beautiful sight.

"You should´ve jumped in, Commodore James," Jack comments later, standing dripping and nude next to me, fresh out of the water. "You haven´t lived properly before you´ve swum with dolphins, savvy?"

"Indeed." I keep my eyes firmly focused on the swiftly receding animals until Sparrow has the decency to remove himself – hopefully intending to get dressed.

I wonder why I am so adverse to seeing Sparrow naked. It is not that I have never seen a man naked before – that would be a hard claim to make when one has lived aboard a ship where there is simply not enough room to afford any but the highest-ranking officers even a modicum of privacy. Nor am I a prude – at least, not usually. So why is it that I have such reactions every time it seems like it is going to be unavoidable for me to see him so? I shake my head – what good are such speculations?

Most of the days, however, glide by, unmarked and unremembered – one by one by dreary one.

And then comes the day when the wind stops blowing.

There is nothing predictable about this – since morning there has been a strong and steady wind blowing in what is apparently just the right direction, and the sails have been bulging. And then – all of the sudden – they are not. We all look up at the unusual sound it makes to find the sails hanging limp, as does the pirate flag above them.

As if it was not only the ship, but also the sailors themselves who are dependent upon the wind for strength, the crew starts to stop performing whatever tasks they have. Sparrow manages to get some of them up in the riggings to furl the sails, but apart from that even he seems to be caught in the spreading lethargy.

It is a hot day – the sun beats down from a clear sky and is reflected back by an ocean as blank as a tailor´s mirror. Pirates lounge where there is the smallest shade, for once filling their hip flasks from the water barrel rather than the rum stores. The air is full of the smell of sweat and hot tar. I feel my shirt sticking to my skin, and decide to seek shelter in the cabin.

Inside it is also hot, but at least it is shaded and the open windows prevent me from suffocating in the heat. I curl up on the bed with a book, but I find my head nodding and my eyelids starting to feel unbearably heavy. Soon I dose, dreaming of fire and the coolness of a great cave filled with treasure.

I wake up towards evening, the sun just touching the horizon. The heat has abated somewhat, though there is still no wind. I treat myself to a few of the oranges from the fruit bowl on the table, squeezing them to let their sweet, refreshing juices fill my dry mouth.

Sounds are coming from the deck – shouts and arguments and loud applause among them – and I decide to go investigate, my curiosity aroused. I cannot say exactly what it is that makes these sounds different from the usual drunken revelry, but somehow they are.

It seems as though every man – and woman – aboard are up on deck. Some of them seem to be simply lazing in the twilight, others are engaged in the endless tasks of splicing rope and mending sails. Everybody, whether sitting on a coil of rope or a barrel or leaning against the railings or hanging effortlessly from the riggings, are arrayed in a crude semicircle.

And in the small open area in the middle of this semicircle? Who but Jack Sparrow, bending over a barrel while concurrently trying to keep up what appears to be seven or eight separate conversations.

He looks up at me and, breaking into a smile, he leaves what he was doing behind to rush over to me.

"Commodore James, just the man I wanted to see!" and he grasps my arm to tug me along back with him into the open space.

"Oh?" I manage, the heat having not left my brain quite yet – and besides, I am not entirely comfortable with being dragged into the middle of the crew.

"Aye. You see, Commodore James, I need your help, savvy?"

"My help?" I choke out, staring at the brilliant smile that the rascal has seen fit to offer me.

"Aye, your help," and he tugs until I find myself standing next to the aforementioned barrel – I note that there are a few sheets of paper - the topmost one partly covered in writing – and a pen lying on it. "You see, Commodore James, we are working on the ship´s articles, savvy?"

"Articles?"

"Aye, you know – rules of behaviour aboard and suchlike, eh?"

"I thought you had your precious Code?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Aye, but you see, the Code is awfully general – and besides, it´s really more like guidelines, savvy?" For some reason he looks pointedly at me for a brief moment before continuing. "But anyway, my dear Commodore James, we´re working on a set – seeing as how I´ve only just gotten my lovely Pearl back, and so she hasn´t got any, 'cause I´m not having the same as that bastard Barbossa, and that´ll never do, now will it?"

"Which does little to explain what sort of help it is you are expecting me to provide – surely you do not want a naval officer to help shape your rules?"

"Nay, that´d never do. But see, we´re all discussing it over a friendly bottle of rum, savvy, and since memories are what memories are, we need to write down the points we agree on – and that´s were you come in. You see, most of these sods don´t know a from b, let alone how to cross their t´s and dot their i´s, so none of 'em can do it – and I´m busy trying to convince these curs that – well, that a lot of things really, so…"

"So you need me to take notes." Ah, the ironies of Fate – one day a Commodore in command of a great number of men and ships, the next degraded to a lowly scribe for a bunch of illiterate scallywags.

"Aye, and how good of you to volunteer, Commodore James." He smiles somewhat hopefully at me, adding imploring eyes – to improve the effect, no doubt. I wonder if anybody will ever believe me if I tell them that the feared pirate Jack Sparrow is capable of looking exactly like a begging puppy? I feel everybody else looking at me, too, but none of them do so in any sort of imploring or puppy-like manner.

"Very well, then – I suppose you have a pen?" I sigh. Jack´s smile is like a sunrise, and in no time at all not only a pen, but also ink, more paper and a small barrel for me to sit on has been provided, and I can nod in answer to his question of "all set?" – I suppose this is going to be interesting.

"Now, Commodore James, first we´re going tell you the stuff we´ve already agreed on, so as you can put that down, savvy?" – I nod again – "First of all, and most importantly: the pirate ship known as The Black Pearl belongs to me, that is, to Captain Jack Sparrow, and that´s not going to change. Anybody not happy with that are more than welcome to take his or her share of the loot and leave at any time. And anybody who´s not happy to do that should bear in mind that mutiny or attempt thereof is punished at the captain´s – that´d still be me, so, at my discretion, with anything up to and including dangling from the yardarm. Got all that?"

"Is this supposed to be a draft or the finished document?"

"Oh, just a draft for now – though if you´d be so kind as to make it into a proper document with all the trimmings on the morrow…"

"I shall consider it, Captain Sparrow – and yes, I have it. What else?"

To my surprise it is not Sparrow himself who proceeds, but Mr. Gibbs.

"Aye, so, we got the matter of officers, then. First, there´s the captain," and the somewhat theatrical gesture used to indicate said individual is answered by that queer little bow with folded hands of his. "Then we be in need of a quartermaster, chosen by the crew – and someone thought that might be me. D´ye agree with that?" There is little doubt that the answering roar from the crew is in the affirmative, so I put Mr. Joshamee Gibbs down as quartermaster of the Black Pearl.

"And then there be the first mate and that be Anamaria – and if ye don´t like it, ye´ll have to take it up with her!" From the looks of the crew I somehow doubt that anybody will – will dare, that is. "And those be all the officers we freemen be a-needing!"

"Aye, but get to the good part already!" someone shouts – Mr. Marty, I do believe.

"And what exactly is 'the good part´, Mr. Marty?" Jack calls back, but in such a way as to leave no doubt that he is quite aware of what is referred to.

"Shares, ye daft fool, shares of the loot!" Hearing someone call – or, more precisely, yell – Sparrow a fool to his face aboard his own ship is a surprise – to bestow such a title on an officer of the Navy would earn the offender quite a lengthy and unpleasant encounter with the cat. All Sparrow does is raise an eyebrow and yell back, grinning: "Impatient, aren´t we?"

"Get on with it!" and variations thereof are heard from the – considering the way he is clearly playing them, I suppose I should call them the audience.

"All right, all right, you greedy lot, as you will – shares. A full share of the loot for every man and woman on the crew, be they sailor, cook or cabin boy, 'cept for the quartermaster and the first mate, who´ll get a share and a half, savvy?"

"And 'cept for the cap´n," Anamaria adds, "who gets 'imself two shares."

Apparently this distribution of any possible profit is acceptable to the crew – I wonder idly if my hearing will survive this debate.

Fortunately the following points of order are apparently less enthusiastically embraced – a rule regarding open fire and the advisability of its immediate proximity to the ship´s stores of powder and shot, enforced by the threat of the lash wielded by Anamaria (after having experienced the – uhm, the lady´s enthusiastic approach to the task, I fully believe that such a threat would be more than sufficient to keep me from breaking the rule). Another pair of rules, enforced by the same means, are agreed on – one requiring of the crew that they keep their weapons in good condition and ready to be used at all times, the other demanding that no matter what grievances two or more crewmen may have with each other, then they have to wait until next time they are ashore with the settling of the matter.

Sparrow is just about to start on the next point when he spares me a glance.

"Commodore James, why aren´t you scribbling away?"

"Because I am not a cat, Captain Sparrow. If I try to write in this," and I make a vague gesture to indicate the darkness that obscures the faces around me as well as the writing already on the paper, "then nobody will be able to read it in the morning – and that would rather defeat the purpose, would it not?"

"By the powers, your right! Oy, you lot – get some lanterns on deck, d´you hear! S´ not proper, debating in the dark, savvy?"

The soft, flickering light of lanterns soon illuminate the deck as well as can be done, obscuring the faint glimmer of distant stars. Jack moves in the dancing light, his shadow stretching and twisting until it looks like something befitting some demon or fiend, but the brief smile he sends in my direction before returning to business is almost angelic – but only almost.

As the debate progresses it grows livelier – aided, no doubt, by a surprisingly small number of bottles of rum that has begun to circulate among the crew, every man taking a healthy swig before handing it to the one next to him. Despite the rum, most stay surprisingly sober – and Sparrow, despite not turning down any bottle that comes his way, somehow still manages to stand without swaying more than a little more than usual, and he still manages to lead the debate, proposing and getting applause or at least assent for a number of articles.

I cannot help being surprised at the nature of some of those articles, although the fact that my ears hear them being agreed upon and my hand moves the pen that notes them down, point for point, must be proof that they are quite real. Still, rules strictly prohibiting the theft of the other pirates on board´s belongings as well as demanding sharing between everyone of both loot and necessities of life (food, water – rum) seems strange considering exactly how these men will be acquiring their means.

Article after article and I lose count around the time Anamaria stands up.

"Make it an article that we be only pirates – we´re not going to be doing any rum-running!"

"Why not?" someone shouts and I wonder about the same, as I look at the dark woman – she looks like some heathen priestess or voodoo witch in the light of the dancing flames. Still, her appearance does not make her demand any less odd – many pirates I have caught had a sideline in running rum between the islands and some mainland ports. A steady income when prey is sparse, as well as a way to ensure an if not warm, than at least not outright hostile welcome in at least a single port (other than Tortuga, that is). But of course, most of those ships were smaller and a lot less formidable than The Black Pearl – perhaps she thinks the Pearl too good for such common pursuits?

Well, if that is her reason, then it would appear that the rest are less than inclined to share her sentiments. Even Sparrow joins the rest: "Aye, Anamaria, tell us why not?"

"'Cause the half of the cargo that Gibbs doesn´t guzzle, you´ll have swilled afore we ever reach port or profit – Captain," she adds after a moments pause. Rather than taking offence at this, the two men share a grin, then raise the bottles that they have somehow managed to have handy in a toast to the woman, then finish them off – to the laughter of every man aboard save one: me.

Next Jack sways over to me, to look over my shoulder – or, to be more precise, to wrap his arms around my shoulders and lean heavily against me, to place his pointed chin in the middle of my left shoulder and try to focus on the neat handwriting on the paper.

"How´s it coming, Jimmy-lad?" he slurs into my ear, and I cannot help but strongly suspect that he is somewhat more drunk than is his wont – which would explain the fact that even after I have answered "fine", he stays where he is, pressing his chest against my back, his hot breath tickling my earlobe.

I try to get rid of the clingy pirate with a shrug, but sadly it has no effect, and so I settle for ignoring the scallywag, focus on the still ongoing debate and put down what is decided. Even that is not without certain obstacles, as I learn the first time Sparrow adds his voice to a loud "aye" to some point or other, leaving my ears ringing. Still, I manage.

At some point I realize that the discussion has turned to body parts and the lack thereof – and to sums of money. At first I think they are debating the selling of such items – a grizzly business indeed, I would say, though not one I have ever encountered or even heard of – but then I realize that the subject is actually what compensation is appropriate for each lost limb – that such compensations should be given at all and that a man no longer able to perform his old duties aboard will be given new ones rather than be put ashore seems to be taken for given.

"Right leg?"

"500 pieces of eight!"

"Left leg?"

"400 pieces of eight!"

"Right arm?"

"600 pieces of eight – and a hook!"

"An eye?"

"100 pieces of eight!"

"A tongue?"

"Arrgh, pretty bird!" the only avian aboard proposes, only to be answered with a mixture of laughter and "ayes" loud enough to make the animal take wing and seek the safety of a lofty yardarm – and then they move on to the next body part – "Finger?" – as if the matter has been settled, although I am left uncertain of what exactly the decision was.

"Parrot, Jimmy-lad, a mute gets himself a pretty, talking birdbrain, savvy?" Jack slurs, having apparently noted my confusion through his intoxication.

I keep on writing the list of parts and sums, mechanically, feeling how very tired I am. I wonder what time it is? There are no glasses aboard this ship by which to tell the time, and the moon is absent from the dark sky tonight, so I cannot attempt to learn the time from it. Still, my body tells me that it is late and that it desires rest – considering that I slept half the afternoon away I suspect it might well be very late – or possibly even very early.

The body parts mentioned grow more and more obscure – how exactly do they expect anybody to lose his liver and live to tell the tale? – and the compensations more and more outlandish. When someone brings up the matter of a man´s private parts and Anamaria immediately proposes that a penny sounds like a suitable compensation to her (and if not for the fact that her glower scares every man who might dare to object into silence, I would have expected the ship to fall apart from the sheer force of the objections to such a meagre sum), I put down the pen, deciding that if they want me to take notes about their decisions, then the very least they can do is remain no more than a little drunk whilst making them.

For a little while I sit, tired but not quite able to gather the energy necessary to get to my feet and head for bed. Then Sparrow´s warm, moist breath (which has been tickling my ear for all this time) is replaced with something hot and wet and firm, snaking around my earlobe and tracing along the curve of the ear – in my weary state it takes a bit to realize that it is Sparrow´s tongue I am feeling.

Surprise – or rather shock – gives me the push necessary to get to my feet, hoping to dislodge the lunatic pirate in the process, or at the very least to make him stop what he is doing. Alas, it succeeds at neither.

"Stop it! You´re drunk!" I hiss, and he does, his impudent tongue immediately replaced by a low chuckle – or rather a giggle, except that men do not giggle, not even an odd man like Jack Sparrow. Unfortunately he seems less inclined to actually let go of me – quite the contrary, I realize, as he lifts his legs and wraps them around my waist.

I stand for a moment, Sparrow clinging monkey-like to my back, before deciding that since I am now on my feet I might as well take advantage of it and go to bed.

It takes no more than a single step before I realize that my walk is less than completely steady. The second step is no better and the third is nearly as swaying as Sparrow at his best (or should I say his worst?). Part of it is no doubt his fault, for he is quite heavy and making absolutely no attempt whatsoever to be an easy burden to bear, and part of it is probably due to my simply being tired, but still, this seems somehow insufficient when it comes to explaining this unsteadiness. Might it possible have anything to do with the fact that Sparrow´s head has been resting on my shoulder for quite a bit, his every rum-soaked exhalation gliding past my nose and mouth, enveloping my head? Have I somehow gotten inebriated by proxy, so to speak?

In the end I manage a grand total of six steps before tripping over my own two feet and tumbling ungraciously to the deck.

At least my landing is softer than last time – a human body, firm, but not nearly as unyielding as the deck, is, after all, behind my back. The "oomph" from Jack would seem to indicate that the air has been knocked out of his lungs, but he offers no objections or recriminations. Instead he simply lies beneath me, his arms and legs releasing their death grips, his breath tickling the nape of my neck.

When the disorientation due to the fall has faded somewhat it strikes me that it is not at all proper for a Commodore to be lying on top of a pirate – and besides, I was headed for bed, was I not? So I try to get to my feet again, preferably without Sparrow this time, but said individual grabs hold of one of the legs of my breeches and sends me tumbling once more. In the end I find myself sitting – or should I say sprawling? – in a large coil of rope.

"Stay awhile, Commodore Jimmy-lad. 'Tis but a bit of merriment, savvy?" Jack leans close to inform me. I cannot help but blink at him and I am almost about to tell him "certainly not!" and resume my attempts to reach the cabin and the bed inside it, but then I think – why not? What harm is there in staying on deck – for just a little while? It is not like I actually have to take part in whatever these amoral miscreants consider 'merriment'. And besides, this coil of rope is quite comfortable. So I nod, somewhat reluctantly, and Jack grins and then proceeds to walk away from me.

I sit quietly, observing the men enjoying the drunken revelry that I suppose they must think of as a party. The number of bottles of rum seems to be impossible to count, handed as they are from hand to hand, yet I rarely see anyone without one, and occasionally one man will have two or more. Raucous laughter rolls over me from my right where a group has gathered around Mr. Marty, swapping bawdy stories, whilst to my left raised voices originate from a small group that has apparently yet to notice that the debate about the articles has pretty much drawn to a halt. Someone somewhere has somehow managed to lay hands on a fiddle and the music is joined by stamps and claps as drunken hornpipes, intoxicated jigs and inebriated reels bring perhaps more amusement to the onlookers than to the dancers themselves.

I do not see who hands me the bottle, but suddenly it is in my right hand, still a third full. I assume it must be Sparrow, but a quick look around tells me that he is to be found at the other end of the ship, apparently trying to get some point across to the fiddle player.

I feel eyes on me, the eyes of the men around me. I am far from certain who most of them are – I see Mr. Gibbs among them, though. But their names are beside the point – the point is that they are looking at me and the bottle in my hand.

My first instinct is simply to hand it to whoever is standing closest, but then I reconsider. After all, this bottle is the first hint of anything from this crew that is not hostility or indifference – although it might simply have been the mistake of someone too drunk to know what he was doing. But in that case, would it not simply anger them even more if I were to scorn their 'hospitality´? Who knows what they might do if they thought I considered myself 'too good´ for their rum – especially in their present, far from sober state. I find myself wishing wistfully that Jack had stayed by my side – I imagine he might very well simply have plucked the bottle from my grip and emptied it himself, saving me from my current dilemma.

In the end – almost physically aware of the eyes on me – I lift the bottle and take a swig. Truth be told it is little more than a sip, but unaccustomed as I am to the beverage I find myself coughing anyway. Some hand pounds my back and a bear-like man grins at me before relieving me of the bottle and turning back to his fellows.

After that there is still nobody who pays me any attention, but on the other hand, I hardly imagine it to be mere coincidence the second time – not to mention the third and fourth and fifth – a bottle is pressed into my hand. Each time I wet my mouth and little more – still, the world, already blurred by my weariness, grows more hazy with every sip.

At some point I notice that Jack has drifted back into my immediate vicinity. He appears to be trying to teach some of his crew that ridiculous pirate song Elizabeth taught him – a process made more difficult by the fact that he does not seem to know the lyrics properly himself.

"We kidnap and ravage and don´t give a hoot,  
Drink up me 'earties, yo ho."

A drunken chorus joins him on the refrain. It sounds like there is general agreement that this is an excellent song.

"We extort, we pilfer, we filch, and sack,  
Drink up me 'earties, yo ho.  
Maraud and em – em, embody? Embarrass? Embellish? Let´s see, rhymes with muzzle. Guzzle? No." You can almost see Sparrow´s tongue trying to tie itself into knots in an attempt to remember the word – though it does not seem to do him any good.

"Embezzle, Sparrow – the word you are looking for is embezzle." There, that will stop his ridiculous theatrics – hopefully.

I expect Sparrow to grab hold of the word and continue his less than enjoyable singing. Instead he slowly turns around to look me in the face. His eyes are slightly unfocused.

"Now where did you learn that little ditty, Com´dore Jimmy-lad?" he slurs, placing a hand on my shoulder, leaning even closer.

"In case you have forgotten I served aboard the ship that conveyed both Governor Swann and his daughter from Southampton to Port Royal. For nearly two months I heard that song at least once a day – and I was not drunk a single one of them."

"So, that means ye know it, aye?"

"Yes, Sparrow, I know it."

"Wonderful. Then ye can sing it for us." Sparrow smiles drunkenly.

"Absolutely not." There is no way that I – a Commodore of His Majesty´s Royal Navy – am going to sit aboard a pirate ship surrounded by pirates and sing perhaps the most ridiculous song about pirates that has ever existed. There is simply no way.

"Come, come, Com´dore Jimmy, sing. I´m sure you´ve got a lovely voice. What are ye, anyway? A baritone?"

"Sparrow, let me make this perfectly clear to you: I am not under any circumstances going to make a fool of myself by singing that song. Is that understood?" I try to add as much weight behind my words as possible, but I think I manage to slur at least once – damn that bloody rum!

"Aye, Jimmy-laddie, ol´ Jack savvy. The lovely Lizzie-lass said much the same thing – half a bottle later she was a-singing like a nightingale – or a swan. A Swann song, eh?"

"Sparrow, I am not some young highborn lady you can get drunk on half a bottle of that vile drink!" though truth be told he just might – I am not certain how much I have already had of the beverage in question, but I fear I am already more than just a little tipsy.

"I understand ye perfectly, Jimmy-lad," and he straightens, winking at me and tapping the side of his nose. "Oy, Gibbs – get me a _whole_ bottle for the good Com´dore, savvy?" The loudness of his own shout leaves him swaying slightly.

"Sparrow, let me try again," and I spare the bottle that has suddenly – as if by some black magic – appeared in my hand a somewhat reproachful glare, "there is no way that you are going to make me sing!"

"No way?"

"None."

"But ye really should, Com´dore Jimmy. Come now, sing."

"No."

Sparrow sways a little, seemingly trying to think of a useful argument. Then he sways a lot, and suddenly he is lying on his back on the deck, his head having very conveniently landed right in my lap. Sometime during the night he has lost his bandanna and his braids are radiating out from his head like a halo, covering my lap like a fairly eccentric blanket.

Cinnamon eyes shining below an odd, upside down grin, Jack tries one more time. "Please sing?" There is something almost plaintive in his voice – no doubt he is an emotional drunk.

"No. However," I continue as his face falls in a way reminding me of a small child that has just been informed that Christmas has been cancelled this year, "if it will make you stop pestering me, then I might be persuaded to recite the bloody song to you. Will that suffice?"

"Aye, that´ll do just fine." With his right hand he plucks the untouched bottle from my hand, with his left he reaches out and grabs hold of mine. I look down and see my own fingers tangling with his, my other hand somehow having decided to stroke that wild mane entirely of its own volition – then I sigh and, hoping that it will be sufficient to make him stop bothering me, I begin reciting the first verse of the bloody song.

In the end I have to patiently repeat the lyrics over and over again to the more-than-usually drunk scallywag. I stop counting when I pass the first score. But eventually he gets up, gives me a somewhat unsteady hug and a sloppy kiss that leaves me with a wet spot on my cheek (as well as strongly reminded of an affectionate dog) and sways off. About five minutes later a less than melodious rendition of "A pirate´s life for me" can be heard from the aft.

The song spreads like wildfire through the ship. Soon I find myself to be the only one left who does not at the very least sing along on the refrain – and the crew squabble over the dwindling number of bottles so that they can "drink up me 'earties, yo ho" properly. It even sounds like a couple of the more creative ones among them are attempting to make new verses – with varying degrees of success and talent. But after a while their singing changes into a number of other songs, resulting in a genuine cacophony, although nobody seems to mind. Apparently Jack has finally grown tired of the song – or so I think, until he sways past me, still humming it enthusiastically. So, apparently the crew grew tired of it first.

The revelry continues with more songs, more dances – though they are no longer recognisable ones – and of course more rum. More and more often a bottle comes my way, and I feel my mind growing steadily more and more blurred every time I obey the good manners I have had ingrained in me since boyhood.

Sometimes Jack talks to me, his voice so slurred with drink that I can hardly comprehend his speech. This does not seem to bother him – he grins and laughs every time I try to answer something I think he said, though whether it is that what I say have no relation to what he said that makes him do so, or whether it is the growing slur in my own voice or simply his own drunken, crazy mind, I cannot say.

Sometimes one of the others aboard – once Gibbs, once Marty, once the peg-legged pirate who tripped me – will address me. Not often, but occasionally – but their voices are also nearly slurred beyond comprehension, though not nearly as badly as Sparrow´s.

Sounds wash over me like waves on a beach – jokes told by some and answered by the raucous laughter of others, the crash of one of the 'dancers´ missing a step and tumbling down on some of his fellows, clanging bottles, scattered snoring, and from somewhere comes the sound of a mostly-friendly brawl.

The night is dark outside of the flickering, dancing lights of the lanterns. Dark, but not quiet. Moaning, groaning, animal sounds, grunts and cries can be heard, faint but undeniable. I look at Anamaria downing some rum and I try hard not to think of what is going on beyond my sight.

The songs continue, a plethora of tuneless tunes involving all manner of creatures of the sea – pirates and mermaids seem especially popular and quite often both will appear in the same song – and each song grows progressively less and less fit for mixed company – not that Anamaria seems to mind. In fact, she is the one that starts many of the worst.

At some point I hear an oddly familiar voice rise up to join the rough voices of the pirates. The realization that it is my own voice leaves me deeply mortified, especially since the song – a ballad involving a mermaid and a pirate (how very surprising) engaging in a number of quite explicitly described activities, some of which involve a crab (for some reason no doubt best left in the song writer´s mind) – is one of the least proper of the evening´s selection. My voice, however, does not seem to respond to my attempts to make it stop singing – rather it grows louder at every attempt, and determinedly continues to sing along with the next few songs – no doubt to show me who is in charge. When it finally stops I hear laughter and jingling somewhere close by, but cannot spot the source of it.

I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into my surprisingly comfortable coil of rope – the world is spinning slightly but that does not matter since I make no attempt to stand, to walk, to join the erratic drunken lurching that passes for dancing at this time of night. Rather I sink further, feeling on the verge of sleep.

The sight rudely jolts me awake.

On the deck in front of me, apparently paying me no attention, is a man. There is something about him that makes me feel as if he does not belong here – this man with his scarred and weather-beaten face half-hidden behind a somewhat scruffy beard. On his head sits the most flamboyant hat I have ever seen, much more flamboyant even than the ridiculous piece of headwear that Mr. Turner saw fit to wear for my abduction. Somehow he seems familiar to me, this man, as I look at him laughing at something, as if he is somebody I ought to know, and yet I am fairly certain that I have never before laid eyes on this living, breathing man.

But it is not the sight of him that affects me so.

It is the monkey.

The monkey sitting on his shoulder, long tail wrapped around his neck like a furry necklace.

The monkey I last saw in a gloomy cave on The Isle of the Dead.

I thought it was dead, that its lifeless body had been thrown into the ocean along with its dead master – obviously I was mistaken, for how could it then be here now, baring its teeth at me in a shriek, skin and flesh falling off to reveal the unnatural beast I saw in the moonlight.

I lurch to my feet, a plan involving grabbing hold of the little monster half-formed in my head. But before I can make my way close to it, it leaps, landing on some other shoulder. I stagger after it, trying to get the attention of some of the crew. Surely they cannot all of them be so drunk so as not to notice this thing? But my imploring does not make a single head turn.

The simian thing leaps and leaps and leaps – from shoulder to barrel to rigging to shoulder, once hanging precariously on to a swinging lantern, always a step ahead of me. Still I follow it in between the dancing pirates that fill the deck.

The men around me grow paler and paler, grow thinner and thinner – and then they are no longer men, but dancing skeletons. Not the hideous unnatural things that boarded The Dauntless on that nightmarish moonlit night, though – they had scraps of skin and rotten flesh and sinews still attached and eyeballs rolling in the sockets. These are different – sun-bleached bones, straight out of the drawing I once saw in a ship´s surgeon´s book of anatomy – hollow eye sockets, empty ribcages, not the slightest hint that there has ever been more. And their movements – the things from before, the way they moved was perhaps the worst thing about them – smoothly, as smoothly as any living man can move. If I had ever taken the time to consider how a skeleton might move (which of course I have not), I would not have expected that – rather I would have expected the jerky, vaguely insect-like movements that the bony fellows around me are dancing with, looking slightly, morbidly comical.

Under other circumstances I might have laughed to see these skulls and bones try to dance – as it is I barely spare them a glance, intent as I am on following the horrid monkey. I follow even as it leaps into the midst of the crowd, elbowing and pushing my way past the creaking and clicking dancers. At one point I almost – almost – grab hold of its tail.

Suddenly I am past the skeletons, and at that precise moment I realize that I have no hope of ever catching the little beastie, for before me is a huge number of all sorts of monkeys and apes – gorillas, marmosets, howlers, baboons yawning to display their mighty canines – and my prey plunges into this new crowd, lost to me.

I turn around, intending to go back to my coil of rope – and realize I am standing on a sandy beach, on a small island. I can see monkeys setting the sails, monkeys hoisting the anchor, a large monkey at the helm of the ship. It is sailing away, this ship – my lovely Interceptor – and I know without the smallest doubt that she will never again sail into a port, that she will be lost forever to the greedy sea.

A single, salt tear trickles down my cheek.

A flock of monkeys with tattered black wings circle above the ship, looking most of all like some hideously obscene parody of the Lord´s own angels. They screech like so many gulls. I turn from the ill-omened sight, shuddering, revolted.

Before me is, once again, a crowd, a horde, a churning sea of all manner of simians and apes. Their numbers seem to have increased considerably while my back was turned. At the moment they are ignoring me.

Eating, grooming, screaming, jumping, wrestling, playing, engaging in – uhm, conjugal activities – the animals are in constant movement. I try to keep my eyes on a single specimen – a small gold-furred simian – but soon it is lost in the living ocean.

To my right is a large group of unusually disgusting beasts. There is something disturbingly humanlike about their appearance, yet they are too large and hairy to be human in the least. Some of them are throwing offal at each other. One is making an odd noise, like some gibberish word, repeating it again and again and again, louder and louder and louder: "Yahoo! Yahoo! Yahoo!"

A large gorilla is watching the disturbingly manlike brutes from a respectable distance, its face immeasurably sad. Huge tears come from its eyes – I did not know that gorillas could weep.

Behind it, further away, there are more gorillas, playing and tumbling. Among them is a being that seems even more manlike than the brutes – and yet not a human, for I do not believe that any man can move in the strange gait of this mangy, unkempt creature. Besides, if this sorry sight was one of Adam´s descendants, then surely he would have felt shame at his nakedness and tried to cover it – it does not seem to have ever crossed its mind, though. It wrestles with one of the gorillas, unmindful of my perusal, making the same grunting noises as the other animals around it.

I look right and left, back and forth, even jump up and down in an attempt to see further – trying to spot something on this island that is not an animal, some sign – however small – of human presence.

Far away, on the other side of the island, what seems to be a man is standing in front of the head of an enormous monkey. It would appear that the rest of it is buried in the ground. I start to run towards him, moving faster and faster the closer I get. It seems to me to be of the greatest importance that the only two civilized men on this strange island should meet and form some form of alliance. But as I run the monkey head opens its mouth – and the man enters. The animal´s lips seal themselves behind him.

I stop so abruptly that I tumble to the ground, feeling a sudden, terrible sense of abandonment and loneliness. I am all alone, here amongst these beasts, these brutes.

"Oook." I look up to find a large, orange-red ape regarding me. "Oook," it repeats, then picks up the couple of books lying at its feet and disappears among the bookcases. I look after it, sad – there was something oddly profound and important about what it said to me. If only I had been able to understand it.

A strange, rhythmic, noisy music makes me look up, craning my neck to see what is causing it.

High, high above me, floating on a cloud, is – by now it hardly comes as a surprise to me – a monkey. It is wearing a golden headband and there is something strangely – stone-like? metal-like? – about its fur. In its hands is a black staff, and it whirls it, and sometimes the staff shrinks until it disappears from my sight, sometimes it grows until it is so tall that it could reach the top of the sky while standing on the bottom of the ocean.

The monkey is dancing.

Kneeling on the ground I lean as far back as I can to watch the animal as the cloud that carries it slowly moves, casting its shadow on monkey after monkey, ape after ape – and occasionally on me. The dancer grins and shouts and stamps all the time – there is something irrepressible about this particular animal that strongly reminds me of Jack.

The thought of the rascal pirate makes me smile – somewhat to my surprise.

The cloud passes over me again and it begins to rain. Large, golden drops hit the ground with such force that tiny golden fountains briefly take shape every time a drop hits. And in the middle of the golden shower, like some second Danaë, I kneel.

Amber liquid falls on me – on my hands, on my shoulders, on my closed eyelids and the tip of my nose and my lips. A single drop manages to make its way inside to touch my tongue – and I open my eyes in shock (and am immediately forced to blink repeatedly when golden raindrops hit them at that precise moment) as I realize that it is raining rum.

A moment later I open my mouth wide to catch as many drops as possible – whether it is because I wish to drown myself or simply to drown the loneliness, I cannot say. I just swallow and swallow, golden liquid running down my throat, down into my belly.

And then it is not. Something hard hits a tooth – and then my shoulder – and then an ear.

I open my eyes again and see that I am now in the middle of a golden shower in the truest sense of the word – the air is full of coins from every nation under the sun. They gleam and glitter blindingly in the bright light of day.

Perhaps I ought to lift my hands to protect my face from the falling metal. Perhaps I ought to reach out to try to grasp some of it. For some unfathomable reason I do neither.

Gold turns to green – now it is raining emeralds, each one a perfect copy of the stone hanging around my neck.

And then it is raining Jack Sparrows, each one barely the size of my smallest finger, each one perfect in every detail – gold teeth and hair trinkets, sash and boots and weapons at his side. When they hit the ground they disintegrate into hundreds and thousands of even tinier, but just as perfect Jack Sparrows.

For some reason not a single one of them ever hits me.

Suddenly they are no longer falling. Instead they are circling me, like some swarm of angry insects – round and round and round it goes, making me hopelessly dizzy. It gets hard to distinguish the individual miniature scallywags from the general blur.

The circle tightens. The tiny Jacks come closer and closer.

A feather-light touch startles me, makes me take a step backwards – straight into more touches. Then they descend on me.

In less than a moment Jack Sparrow is everywhere, touching, kicking, clawing, scratching, stroking, biting, licking, fondling, kissing – making theirs – his? – way in under my clothing, past my every defence. I lift my hands to brush him – them? – off of me, but my hands are covered in a layer of Jack Sparrow. When I look down I see that they – he? – are everywhere, clinging, suddenly naked, covering every inch of my flesh like a second skin.

It is the most horrible sensation I have ever experienced.

It is the most wonderful sensation I have ever experienced.

A sunbeam doing a hornpipe on my left eyelid wakes me up sometime after dawn, but before noon.

Upon waking I immediately take note of two things.

The first thing is that sometime during my sleep my head has been placed in Jack´s lap. It is surprisingly comfortable.

The second thing I note is that I must have had quite a lot of rum to drink last night – the hangover is quite possibly the worst I have ever experienced, complete with headache and nausea.

Oh, the nausea…

Oh well – at least Jack does not seem to be _too_ upset about having to change his breeches first thing in the morning. Thank God for small favours.


	9. The Games We Play

People who have spent their entire lives in England or similar places have no idea how hot it can get in the Caribbean when no wind blows and not a single cloud drifts by to challenge the sun's supremacy. And even the people who have spent part of their lives in the West-Indies have no idea how hot it can get under such circumstances when one is aboard a black ship.

The heat if stifling. In the daytime every living being aboard is driven out on deck, gasping for fresh air – even the pigs have been brought out of the hold and placed in a makeshift pen. Mercifully, Jack has had the common sense to have had some sun sails put up – only God knows how we would manage if there was no shade to be had at all.

The first couple of days many of the men seek relief in the cool waves around us, lead by their captain, who even goes to the length of having a sail lowered into the sea to create some shallow water and then proceeds to give lessons to those of the men who cannot swim. I sit on the railings and look down on his endeavour, slightly bemused – though some captains in the Navy think it wise to have men who can swim, considering the element they are surrounded by, by far the most are of the conviction that it is unwise. Men who can swim will more often jump ship at any harbour, they argue, and unlike those who cannot, they cannot simply be kept confined aboard to prevent it. Besides, men who can swim are worse off if they fall into the water – they take that much longer to drown.

At first I absolutely refuse to even consider taking a dip myself, despite repeated invitations from Jack, but eventually – on the second windless day – I break down and swim a few ship-lengths (pointedly ignoring the rascal who keeps splashing water on me, no doubt trying to draw me into some childish game of his).

Sadly, the dawn of the third day spells the end of such entertainment – the water immediately surrounding the Pearl has grown – unappetizing, to say the least, since the waste from the ship and her crew are not as usual left far behind. With no wind to move the ship we are stuck in water that grows filthier by the day.

At night the temperature drops – not that it ever as much as approaches cool, but enough so that most people go below deck to sleep, and enough so that you will wake up shivering in the hour just before dawn if you do not have a blanket. At noon the temperature soars and nothing stirs. Even the cats, Silver and Gold, who spend most of the day and night playing and hunting, seem to loose all their energy and simply lounge – even the small, fluffy yellow chickens that has somehow managed to be hatched in the henhouse (despite the fact that it is searched for eggs repeatedly every day – eggs that the pirates spend considerable time squabbling over) does not attract more than a passing glance at this time of day, no matter how very interesting they might be at other times.

Life is lived in the mornings and evenings – and mostly on the shaded deck. The men make themselves busy, some with ordinary pursuits like splicing rope, others whittle or amuse themselves in other ways – I notice one man with a bag full of dried cloves, carefully working on a small model ship of the unusual material. Others again engage in games of the sort that one might expect – the dice tumble far from the players on the deck, while the cards need no pebbles to prevent them from flying away. Strangely enough there are no money changing hands during these games. – One day I ask Jack about that.

"'Tis the Code, Commodore James – no playing dice or cards for money."

"Are you meaning to tell me that pirates do not gamble?"

His answer is to guide me down into the hold by a most circuitous route, repeatedly shushing me when I try to ask what we are doing. Well hidden behind an extravagantly luxurious sofa (part of Sparrow's stored furniture) I watch a group of men cheering, while a single one stands within a large circle of rope with his hands tied behind his back. Silver sits in the corner, apparently fascinated by the spectacle. Then a man upends a bag – and the circle is suddenly full of squirming, squeaking rats, their naked, wormlike tails covering what their small, furry bodies does not. Silver pounces on one, carrying it away in triumph – but the panic spreads among the rodents not due to this, but because the bound man has kneeled down and is using his teeth to break the backs of the vermin. Finally nothing stirs in the circle – the surviving rats having managed to make good their escape – and he stands up again. There is blood on his face. Only a little bit comes from a single bite on his cheek. Coins change hands between the entertained pirates.

The spectacle is revolting. Sparrow laughs – no doubt at my expression of distaste, for I sincerely hope that he at least has sufficient refinement to not enjoy such 'entertainment'. Heads turn at the sound suddenly coming from what appeared to be an empty corner, but turn away again when they spot the familiar figure of their captain – who is presently tugging at my arm to make me join him on the sofa.

The sofa is quite comfortable, but Sparrow seems to be of the opinion that I am a part of it – or at least a cushion. At least, that is surely the explanation for why he is lounging as much on me as on it. When the pirates start getting ready for another round of their game, I push him off and head back up on deck, not wishing to see any more of it. Sparrow's ringing laughter follows me up the stairs.

Most mornings I try to keep busy – not an easy task as the matters stand. It is Jack who reminds me of the ship's articles – and of my almost-promise of turning the draft into an actual document. I most confess I pounce on it and very determinedly repress all thoughts about whether it is an acceptable task for a naval officer.

Six mornings I spend my time doing rewrite after rewrite, shaping a document that has the ring of something very official – and wasting quite a lot of paper in the process, but somehow I cannot seem to summon up any guilt over that. After all, I am not the one who will have to requisition or purchase more of it – not this time. And every step of the way there is Jack – keeping me company, reading through my drafts, making suggestions regarding the phrasing of a particular passage – the man has quite a vast vocabulary (though he seems inordinately fond of the word flagitious) -, at times distracting me with jokes or stories (and when I ask him why, his answer – which he refuses to elaborate on – is simply: "All work and no play makes Jimmy a dull boy" (and I cannot help but bristle on the inside at his presumption – it is bad enough that he has the audacity to call me James, but Jimmy !)), sometimes bringing me water and oranges – he seems to have noted my fondness for the fruit. I never ask him why he lavishes me with so much attention – I tell myself it is most certainly not because I am worried about what the answer might be.

By the end of the sixth morning, Jack and I both run out of ideas for improvements to the document – and I fully expect to have nothing to do on the seventh morn. Not so, as it turns out, because Jack insists that I help him with the actual signing of the bloody thing, too – a process that involves me writing down peoples' names one by one as he calls them over to us, then watch as they sign next to it – or rather, some of them sign. A considerable number simply put down their X, and a few shape words in manners of writing unknown to me – I think I recognise both Arabic and Chinese among them, though.

Jack himself is the very last to sign – a large, ornamentally curled piece of calligraphy that takes up half a page. I almost expect him to add 'savvy' to the 'Captain Jack Sparrow' – it is almost more surprising that he does not.

"And now you, Commodore James."

"Sparrow, are you _completely_ mad? How on Earth can you possibly imagine that I would be willing to sign your _pirate_ ship's articles?" I glare at the pen he is offering me.

"Oh, I don't want you to sign 'em, my dear Commodore James – I dare say you'd be too much of handful to have on me crew for me tastes. Bad enough with Anamaria. No, I want you to write that you've witnessed it."

"Why?"

"'S only proper, aye? Official-like papers should have witnesses to say that those that signed 'em are those that signed 'em – and who better than a fine and fair Commodore?"

I glare a bit more at the pen before practically wrestling it from his fingers. "Fine!" I grumble. Jack just grins at me. I raise the pen to start writing something to the desired effect – 'I, Commodore James L. Norrington, hereby etc. etc." – and then I pause.

"Sparrow, I will need to date this if it is to be done properly."

And he tells me the date.

I hurriedly cover up my reaction by writing. Besides, I am not certain what reaction is proper – part of me is saying "not any longer?", because sometimes it feels like my captivity has lasted for years, part of me is saying "that long?", because at other times it feels like I was pulled over the edge of the cliff just yesterday. And part of me is wondering how much longer it is going to be.

Not that my stay aboard The Black Pearl is completely unbearable – quite the contrary. For one thing Jack has actually kept his word – I am, mostly, treated as cordially as a guest should be. Furthermore, some of the crew have actually begun to speak with me – mostly it is simply a "hallo, Mr. Commodore" (or "Mr. Norrington" or "Commodore Norrington" – or "Arrgh, ye scurvy dog" (though I suppose a parrot should be given some leeway) – only Jack ever uses my given name). Occasionally there will even be a brief exchange about the weather – seeing as the change in the crew's disposition happened after the night-long debate, that is a subject offering very little in the way of variation, though I am hardly going to complain about that.

Quite a few of the crew are still ignoring me – I suspect that quite a few of them would love to throw me overboard, but refrain out of respect for their captain – when it comes to Mr. Hawkins, who will occasionally glare at me when he thinks nobody notices, it is more than mere suspicion. Still, mostly people are polite to me – mostly.

The mornings are long – partly because people rise before dawn – but eventually the rising heat will spell their end, and people will find their way to their places on the deck. I have a fairly comfortable seat, reasonably well-shaded (Jack picked it and shares it with me, occasionally rising to get the both of us mugs full of water (not a soul is drinking rum in this daytime heat – Gibbs held out to the third day, Jack to the second) – the one time I try to do it he pulls me back down and asks me what kind of a host I think he is, if I think he will allow me, the guest, to do that).

The people onboard cope with the heat by shedding as much clothing as possible – a few are on the very verge of indecency, though most settle for relieving themselves of shirts and suchlike. The deck is nearly hidden by tanned and darker skin and vivid tattoos. The only item nobody considers removing are hats – quite the contrary, from somewhere Jack has even dredged up an old tricorn for me. He presents me with it on the first day – by suddenly standing in front of me and placing it on my head.

I take it off and look at it.

"You could not have lent me this sooner?" I ask, squinting up at him. Wherever he found this, it must already have been there before, when I had a need for one – so why has he waited until now?

"'Tis just an old thing, really – still wouldn't have fitted with your pretty uniform, Commodore James."

"And why exactly did you decide to provide me with it now?"

"'Cause of the sun. It's glaring something fierce, and I've a hunch it's barely getting started."

"I see", and I place the hat on my head. It is slightly too small for me, but I am grateful for the shade it provides.

"Speaking of the sun," Jack continues as he flops down next to me, "just hold still for a moment while I put this on ye, eh?" In his hand is the porcelain jar he keeps his kohl in.

"You are not going to smear that stuff all over my face, Sparrow."

"Nope, just 'round your pretty eyes, mate." A long finger dips into the jar, then reappears visibly darkened.

"Sparrow, you are not going to…"

"But it's just for the sun, my dear Commodore James, to take some of the glare of it. After all, you are my very own fine guest – only proper I make sure ye're comfortable, eh?" I glare at the man. His hand approaches my face.

"No!" I jerk back.

"Commodore James, will ye stop acting so bloody ridiculous?"

"Ridiculous is how I will look, if I allow you to do this – and I will not."

"Not ridiculous, Commodore James. Quite the contrary – I think you'll look right pretty, very…"

"Sparrow, no!"

He looks into my eyes. I look into his, trying to communicate my sheer stubbornness through my gaze alone. Eventually, Jack sighs – a long-suffering, theatrical sigh.

"Oh, all right then. Have it your way. That's what you get for trying to be thoughtful and considerate," he grumbles, but at least he has stopped his attempts, and I can settle down to enjoy the shade provided by the tricorn.

Anyway, as I was saying, most of the people aboard remove part of their clothing.

Anamaria walks slowly past where I am sitting, then leans languidly against a mast. Her fingers carefully unbutton her shirt. Then she follows what seems to be well-established custom and unceremoniously drops it on the deck.

"See something ye like, Norry?"

"No! I mean yes! I mean – madam, my name is Norrington, not 'Norry'. Kindly use it."

"Ah, but ye look like a Norry – or maybe I should call ye Noreen?" She taps her foot. Like almost everybody onboard she is wearing sensible sailor's shoes (in fact, make that everybody except the captain) – I have never before noticed how very pointed they are.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

The woman throws her head back and laughs, and is joined by a number of the men sitting closest. I feel my cheeks heating somewhat. Then she walks away, leaving a few well-placed slaps in her wake (but only a few, because most of the men she passes are too heat-lazy to try to paw at her – charms) before sinking down between Mr. Marty and Mr. Cotton. Men look at her through half-lidded eyes and from under the rims of hats. Nobody makes a move.

Jack returns with the two brimming mugs of water he has been off fetching, handing one to me, then surveys the scene.

"What'd I miss?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing, mate."

"Nevertheless, it is nothing." He sinks down next to me and follows the direction of my gaze.

"Ah."

"Indeed."

"She really doesn't mean it so bad, you know – our Anamaria."

"She most certainly had me fooled."

"'Tis nothing personal, Commodore James, nothing to do with you."

"I think my previous statement is still most fitting."

"'Tis not _you_ , Commodore James, - 'tis the Navy. They hanged her dad, savvy?"

"Oh?" I turn my eyes away from the woman pirate to regard Jack. How has that nothing to do with me? I am the highest-ranking officer of the Royal Navy in the area.

"Aye. A long time ago, a-fore your time here. So you see, nothing to do with you."

Perhaps it is to stop this conversation that he then proceeds to lean his head back and raise his mug to pour water into his mouth. More than half of it misses. Tiny rivulets cascade down his chin and cheeks, down his throat, down his shoulders and arms, down his chest – sparkling like tiny mountain creeks in the sun, following the riverbeds of old scars. A trickle cascade out over his left nipple, forming the tiniest waterfall I ever did see.

On his shoulder and back the long, winding dragon tattoo sparkles from the moisture – you can almost see the tiny, perfect scales and the sharp edges of its ebony claws, the bright yellow of its eyes – and suddenly the yellow vanishes and reappears, as if the tattoo just winked at me. I blink – then glance up at Jack's face, fully expecting him to be grinning at me, laughing, having just performed some trick of muscles akin to those sailor's who can make a mermaid on their arm undulate. But Jack's head is turned away and he does not seem to have noticed my gaze. How very strange.

Anyway, I am the only one aboard who refuses to remove my shirt – even though Sparrow tries to persuade me a few times (even going so far as to try to remove it himself once, although he does stop when I ask him to – for the fourth time). Mostly it is practicality – the shirt sticking to me might be somewhat unpleasant, but it is vastly better than the sunburn I have no doubt of swiftly acquiring – even sitting in the shade – if I were without it. As it is, I can already clearly see that my hands have darkened somewhat. The last thing I need is to turn a bold red colour – and no doubt have the crew make lobster jokes behind my back (that is, more such jokes than is undoubtedly already made).

In the privacy of my mind I can admit a second reason: embarrassment. All around me I see people vividly marked by their lives – even Anamaria has her share of scars and tattoos – not that I look too closely, of course. And I, what do I have? Skin that is pale from having been hidden under a shirt for so very long (for it is not proper for a high-ranking officer to walk around partially undressed, not even when the common sailors do – and besides, I have always had a tendency to burn easily) – and skin that is mostly unblemished, besides. I do have a couple of scars, but they are fine, pale things, barely noticeable (I have always had the fortune to get injured in proximity of a skilled ship's surgeon or doctor) – but not even remotely similar to the horrid marks that life has left on these men, claiming vast expanses of skin as its own. That most unpleasant day in Tortuga has left me some marks of my own, true, but Jack was correct – they are already fading.

So, in conclusion, I opt to face the sticky, sweaty noonday heat rather than the ridicule I imagine this crew would offer – and I try to tell myself that this has nothing to do with mere pride and everything to do with not giving pirates cause to laugh at the Navy – they have been given plenty of opportunities for that as of late.

Evening will bring salvation by way of removing the glaring sun from the sky, though for an hour or more after sunset this will simply mean that the unbearable heat radiates from the black ship herself rather than the sky – really, none but a madman would dream of sailing around in the Tropics in a black ship!

Eventually, though, the heat does diminish, and the time will come for everybody – myself included – to go looking for spare clothing (or to simply reclaim what was discarded). In the still stifling heat of the cabin I twist and turn, mirror in hand, to assess how close to completely healed the marks on my back are – until Jack laughs at me, plucks the mirror from my grasp and proceeds to hold it at an angle that permits me to make a thorough study. He makes no remarks while doing so, for which I am thankful – though somewhat surprised.

The stay in the cabin never lasts long – it is still far too hot for comfort – and we will return to the deck where the entire crew share the evening meal. Jack brings me my food, just as he brings water for me during the day, and when I try to object and do it myself he once again asks me what kind of a host I think he is. I pointedly refrain from answering, but I do not try to change the situation again – besides, if the scallywag wants to play at being my steward, then by all means let him. Why should I object?

After dinner the crew will amuse themselves with songs and stories. A number of bottles will be brought out, but the merriment never approaches the heights that were attained on that first, hot, drunken night. I am not unhappy about this.

For some reason Jack seems to prefer to stay by my side during these evenings – probably just making sure that I do not get drunk enough to be sick all over his breeches again. Some of the time he will sing, usually a loud and annoying rendition of "A pirate's life for me" – what on Earth possessed me to teach him the lyrics? – although he also seems uncommonly fond of a terribly improper song detailing unnatural acts with a number of animals, though not a hedgehog. Some of the time he will swap tales with his mates, moonlight glinting in gold teeth with every smirk and crooked smile.

One night he brings out a chess set and challenges me to a game. I accept, pointedly refraining from asking where he stole it – it is obviously valuable, detailed pieces carved in ivory and ebony.

Jack plays the same way he seems to do everything – wildly (almost verging on childishly – except he occasionally ceases to verge) and unpredictably, apparently with no rhyme or reason, an impression that only lasts until his seemingly randomly arrayed forces suddenly massacres my far more orderly troops – and so the first game goes to him, an event marked by the changing of handfuls of coins by men who has found something new to bet on.

When the second game starts I am somewhat more prepared for Jack's unusual approach and apparent ability to plan ten or twenty steps ahead, though it is not until the third that I actually succeed in turning the tables on him – to the vocal delight of the handful of men who betted on me and consequently wins a very tidy sum. Jack, on the other hand, proceeds to berate his pieces – one of his rooks in particular – for having failed to rise to the occasion. I find myself smiling at his antics.

Out of the following games, some are swiftly played, some drawn out, some orderly, some not, some I win – some not. Around us the betting expands, men no longer satisfied with simply trying to predict the outcome of each match. Instead they focus on who will next claim one of the opponent's pieces, not to mention which particular piece – and, at the other extreme, they bet on who will eventually wind up winning the most games (while I am pleased to realize that the odds are about even and that neither loyalty to their captain or dislike of the Navy seems to influence them to any particular degree, then it is not so pleasant to find – by the end of the last game – that Jack has won by four games).

A mighty (and quite theatrical) yawn from Jack announces the end of the last game, and he scoops up all the pieces, puts them in an ornate box, and heads for his cabin. I find myself trailing in his wake, carrying the chess board.

That night – for the first time since we sailed into Tortuga – I opt to sleep on my back. I feel Jack's eyes on me as I gingerly make myself comfortable, then I pull up the blanket and close my eyes, blatantly ignoring him – after all, what else am I to do?

In my dreams I find myself back in the cave on the Isle of the Dead – or, to be precise, in a cave that I know, with the absolute certainty that one can know things in dreams, is _the_ cave. Despite the fact that the ankle-deep water I had to wade through is nowhere in sight. Despite the fact that the mountains of gold rising to either side of me make the heaps I clearly remember seem pitiful midgets in comparison. Despite the fact that the light I distinctly recall – moonlight reflected by metal and gems as well as the flickering light of smoking torches – has somehow been replaced with strange, moving beams of brilliant light – some silvery, almost bluish tinged, some emerald green.

A snatch of a tune I have heard far too often lately winds its way through the strange-familiar place. It is too faint for me to hear the actual words.

I start following it.

Through a maze of gorges between glittering metallic mountains I walk – and for every steep I take the tune grows a little clearer, until I can hear the words ("yo ho") and recognize the voice. An inexplicable sense of foreboding fills me and my steps lengthen, quicken, and I am running – dashing left and right and sprinting straight forward so that the individual coins in the piles around me turn into long, golden lines.

Then I stop.

Towering in front of me, rising up from a sea of gold, is an immense ziggurat – so huge that it dwarfs even the coin piles around me. At the top is a great platform. Immense statues stand guard in each of its four corners. The nearest one is a monstrous snake, feather-crowned head rising as if ready to strike, wings – wings? – unfurled as if to help it keep its balance.

On the middle of the platform, lit by a great pillar of silvery light, stands a large stone chest – a very familiar stone chest. The lid is nowhere in sight and the gold glitters in the moonshine-like light.

Balancing on the edge of the chest sits Jack Sparrow. I can still hear him sing.

Then the singing stops.

Feeling as if I am moving through water, my every movement unnaturally slow, I climb the ziggurat. I open my mouth to shout a warning, but no sound leaves my mouth.

All to no avail.

At the exact moment I reach the platform, Jack leans down – apparently not as much as noticing me – and dips his hand into the contents of the chest.

Coins fall like drops of water between suddenly skeletal fingers. Most of them miss the chest, falling on the hard stone slabs of the platform instead.

During the return trip to Port Royal I was told – though not in great detail – how Jack had for a short while allowed himself to be cursed in the same way as his former shipmates. I never saw him as such with my own eyes. I did see the others, that night aboard the Dauntless, but it was rather dark and I was busy fighting for my life and commanding my men, so I had precious little time to study their appearances in detail.

Standing frozen on the edge of the platform, unable to tear my gaze away from the grotesque sight before me, I have plenty of time. Time to notice that the bones are not white, but an awful yellowish colour, and that they are not clean – bits of what I realize must be skin and flesh are still attached. Time to notice that all of the hair is still attached to the skull – each braid so dry and crusted in filth that I suspect that one could break it off with ease. Time to notice that his face, despite having lost most of its skin and flesh – even the soft cartilage of the nose is gone, leaving nothing but a gaping hole – is still recognisably – undeniably – Jack Sparrow's. Maybe because that ridiculous forked beard of his – like his hair it is terribly filthy, but also still very much present – and still framing that infuriating gold-toothed smirk (and only God knows how he even manages to smirk without lips). Or possibly it is his eyes – which apart from being lidless now seems to be the only part of him that are still as they have always been: deep and dark and – and looking straight at me.

As they have been doing for quite some time.

I am halfway down the pyramid before the rational part of my mind has time to point out that headlong flight might not be the most appropriate response to the situation at hand. After all, Jack has not exhibited any real desire to hurt me – at least not as of late – and my understanding of the Aztec curse is that it is only supposed to change the victim physically – and not in such a way as to, for instance, give him a sudden, overwhelming need to bash in the head of every person he meets and feast on their steaming brain. So there is really very little reason for me to be running like this.

Unfortunately, by the time my reason has reminded me of this, my ears have heard the rapid click-creak-flapping of far too naked feet behind me and so there can be no question of stopping now. After all, what possible intent could there be behind a pursuit, if not the intent to harm?

The hard stone of ziggurat steps gives way to the cold, treacherous footing of cold coins. I keep on running, sometimes slipping or stumbling, but never falling – and behind me still, and closer and closer, that horrible sound.

And then I put a foot too close to the edge of the pile and it collapses under me, sending me tumbling down.

I land on my back – and before I can get up bony fingers close around my wrists, pinning my hands above my head, and sharp hipbones press against naked hips. Staring up into those brown eyes I realize that I am naked, that I have been so all along.

It does not matter how naked I am, however, not really – because Jack is more naked by far and in a far more ghastly manner, despite the pitiful remains of what was once those outlandish clothes of his. Now, unravelled pieces of thread have gotten themselves caught in the joints between bones – not that it seems to bother him. No more than his inner organs do, still caught within his ribcage – I have a hard time imagining that the small, black clump that I think must have been a heart once or the slack, hanging lungs are of any actual use to him anymore.

He leans down, face close to mine – I can see the trinkets in his hair (tarnished silver, cracked beads), not so much braided as tangled into it now. Closer he leans, far too close – through a hole I can see his brain – rotten, maggot-ridden thing.

I want to scream, to let some of the horror of this escape by way of my mouth, but there are no sound in this place, not now.

He leans back, cocking his head and relinquishing his grasp on my wrists – but when I try to lift them, to push this horror away from me, I find that I somehow been bound with chains of purest gold. I try to buck, to throw him off – but bones slip and slide and he manages only to get impossibly, unnaturally closer to me.

I stare into his face, desperately searching for some sign – any sign – that I am in no danger, that this is still the strange pirate who wanted to spoon-feed me when I suffered from a bad cold. The eyes that look back at me from that horrid ruin of a face cannot wink at me – how can they be his?

Bones move – thighbones, hipbones sliding around, close, pressing closer still, curving, segmented spine – impossible! impossible! – pressing firmly against my groin. Fingertips – fingerbonetips – glide over my torso, almost tickling. Then the flat of hands, gliding over my belly, chest, shoulders, throat, slowly massaging, kneading. As the bones move over my skin, joints open and close, catching soft skin between surprising hard edges, pinching, leaving tenderness behind.

I can hear my heart now, pounding away, too fast – too fast, like my breathing. Beads of sweat run down my skin. I want to beg this thing – Jack – to please stop, but even if I could get the words out, I fear I have forgotten them.

I stare at his face, not daring to look down, not daring to face what he is doing to me. Instead, I hold on to the only part of him that still seems to be his, if only to a degree – those gleaming eyes.

And then he lowers his head.

I halfway expect him to bite me with those gleaming gold teeth of his. He does not. His skull does not even touch me. Only his beard – surprisingly soft and smooth, defying all logic, and surprisingly warm – sliding over my belly just below the navel. Slowly, slowly, never actually touching, bony hands planted to either side of me, he slides upwards. Softness travelling across tender skin, gliding between my nipples as if they were the Straits of Gibraltar, glides tickling over my Adam's apple, over my skin, my lips.

For a moment we are exactly face to face.

Then he slides upwards yet a bit – and stops. His closed mouth hovers a hair's breadth above the tip of my nose. Through a gaping hole in his cheek I can see his tongue – a shrivelled, black thing, like some hideous dead slug. Then his teeth part.

I scream…

…and open my eyes, scream still ringing in my ears (so loudly that I am surprised that there does not seem to be anybody – including my bedfellow – who have reacted to it), to find a tiny silver-furred cat trying to insert itself nose-first into my left nostril.

I make no conscious decision to back away from the feline. I just act – and manage to slam painfully into the bedhead. The one good thing that comes out of that is that it apparently is just the thing needed to convince Gold that I am not a comfortable place to lie. Sitting on the floor, it glares up at me, acting as if I was somehow the one to act in an unacceptable manner – but then, what did I expect from any creature voluntarily associating with pirates?

It is while I am staring into those unblinking, green-gold eyes, that my sleep-addled brain finally manages to comprehend what my body has been trying to tell it – namely the embarrassing fact that I have apparently managed to wake up whilst – uhm, whilst standing to attention.

Now, of course, it is not the first time I have experienced this. Quite the contrary – though it is no longer quite as common an occurrence as when I was still a youth. Still, I would probably be worried if it had stopped happening altogether. No, it is not my present condition in itself that disturbs me.

But it has been many a long year since last it occurred when I was not alone. Furthermore, it has certainly never happened after any dreams even half as disturbing as the one I have just escaped.

Finally, it has certainly never before happened while I was sharing a bed with another man – let alone with a vile, amoral drunkard of a crazy pirate whose captive I presently am (and who a panicked glance reveals to be sweetly sleeping still, the only discernable reaction to the ruckus an unintelligible mutter).

Never before – but now it undeniably has, no matter how fervently I might wish it otherwise. After all, I can hardly imagine what could possibly be more humiliating than if Jack decides to wake up (possibly if he knew that I had just been dreaming about him – albeit a most monstrous him?).

I glare again at Gold (sitting on the floor, washing, pointedly ignoring my existence). Bloody cat! Could it not have left me alone, so that the dream – however disturbing it was – could have finished what it started? And then, if Jack decided to enquire about the nature of any unfortunate stains, I could truthfully have claimed to have been asleep (and lied if he had wanted to know what dreams might have produced such results).

Unfortunately, it did not happen so – and it is quite out of the question for me to finish this. With the choice out of my hands (so to speak), I feel confident that I could have endured and possibly lied. I strongly (too strongly) suspect that it will not be the case if I handle this in the most direct manner possible. Besides, there is the possibility of Jack waking up while I am in the middle of – it is simply out of the question.

In an attempt to convince my body to subside, I search my mind for the most unappealing image it can conjure up. Old Mrs. Walker, the elderly widow with whom I lodged once as a lieutenant on half-pay in London, spring to mind. A tiny woman – so tiny in her old age that she could almost have been labelled a dwarf – the few wisps of hair left on her head completely white, skin not so much wrinkled as furrowed, liver spots on milky-white skin and a voluptuously curved body and no!

Shaking my head to clear it, I try again. This time, I call up the image of Governor Swann, naked apart from his wig and his stockings – old and wrinkled and pale and slack and muscled and tan and taut and stop!

Two further attempts divest me of any hope of settling the matter in this way – it would appear that my body feels that it has been far too long since the last of my rare visits to the most discreet house in the worst part of Port Royal.

God damn you, Sparrow! Why did you have to put me in this position? You could have allowed me to sleep in one of the smaller cabins or the brig or even in a hammock in this very cabin, somewhere were I could be alone with my embarrassment – but no! You had to insist I share your bed – and now look! No, by the way, do not. Stay asleep. God knows, if you wake up and witness this, my humiliation will be complete.

Enough. I tell myself sternly to calm down.

Right.

So, Jack Sparrow is lying next to me and there is nothing I can do about it – not even leave the cabin, since my presence on deck this time of night would undoubtedly attract undesired attention. Nor can I expect my body to settle down on its own. So there is really only one thing to do – the only question is how to go about this without leaving some embarrassing traces behind?

Men sweat profusely under the merciless sun, especially in the absence of any cooling breezes. Those with sufficient clothes change as often as possible. Jack has enough to change those ridiculous long-sleeved shirts he seems to favour almost daily. What he does not have seems to be any sense of order – the garments are left wherever they fall.

On the floor, within convenient reach, lies a sweat-stained shirt. I grimace in distaste before reaching out for it. Unfortunately, the sight of a (mostly) white garment being pulled slowly across a moonlight-dappled deck is taken as a challenge for a game of tug-of-war by Gold. I fear the sleeve is far beyond salvation when I finally pull it up to me. At least the spectacle is a silent one – oddly enough, the cat makes not a sound.

I arrange the item of clothing – and then, biting my lower lip so hard that I can taste the coppery tang of blood (though I cannot keep back the tiny mewling noises I would wish I was not making), staring as if one hypnotized into the eyes of Gold, hoping it is not going to jump up in the bed, praying to every pagan god I can recall (because the matter seems most improper to connect in any way with the Lord) that the pirate is still asleep somewhere behind my back and will continue to so be, I commit the sin of self-satisfaction. It does not take long.

Afterwards, I crumble up the tainted shirt and throw it under the bed, where it joins a few garments that have already accumulated there. Hopefully, Jack's sense of orderliness will not make an appearance and force him to clean his cabin for a long, long time – long enough to ensure that I am somewhere else when the ruined shirt is discovered. If I am particularly lucky, Jack might not even link the stain to me. If I am particularly lucky.

It is not before I have put my clothes in order that I dare to turn around to see if Jack Sparrow's dark eyes have been studying me this whole time – but thankfully he lies as before, relaxed in sleep. With a grateful sigh I curl up on my side (not willing to risk inviting further feline exploration), my back to the rest of the cabin, pulling the rumbled blanket tight around me. Alas, I soon realize that there will be no more sleep for me tonight. I find myself unable to tear my eyes away from Jack's face – every second of the long nighttime hours I expect those gleaming eyes to open, those lips to curve into a knowing leer, as he reveals that the sleep was indeed faked.

It never happens.

Just before dawn he stirs, and now I am the one faking sleep, keeping my eyes tightly shut, forcing myself to breathe slowly and regularly – and I do not stop until the cabin door is closed – surprisingly quietly – behind him.

Perhaps it is the lack of sleep, perhaps it is the heat, perhaps it is simply the strain of having been held captive by a group of unwashed pirates for several weeks – it might very well be all of these things combined. But whatever the reason might be, it is still undeniable truth that the dawning day finds me somewhat – grumpy.

I suppose that the general heat-induced lethargy could be considered a fortunate circumstance – when nobody has any energy to spare on longwinded conversation, it is less noticeable that my own rare comments are more terse than ordinarily. Jack certainly does not seem to notice – apart from a single brief outburst of laughter at a particularly terse comment – nor does he notice the odd glares I aim at him. In fact, I have begun to notice that Jack seems to have developed a talent for not noticing things – slips of the tongue, glances lasting just a moment too long, restless acts in the bed next to him. It is downright uncanny, how he always seems to manage to miss the things I most want him to miss – and it is beginning to drive me mad.

Because I am also beginning to strongly – very strongly – suspect that he is only pretending to miss them. After all, Jack has already proven himself a most perceptive kind of man – and a most sneaky one as well.

But why would he pretend to be ignorant if he has noticed? The thought torments me as I look at its subject, laughing at some remark… is that it? Does he not say because it –amuses- him to see me squirm? Does he find my discomfort _entertaining_? Is that it!

I look at Sparrow's laughing visage, and I feel the overwhelming urge to throw caution to the wind and give in to the temptation to confront him, to demand the truth from him. Throttle him, shake him until the beads in his hair break from colliding – shake him until all the lies and secrets fall off like so many specks of dirt, leaving the truth and nothing but the truth behind for me to see.

Oh, but it itches in my fingers to do it.

What keeps me back is not fear of retribution – though I have precious little doubt about whether or not such activities would fail to incur the wrath of my captors. No, what keeps me sitting, my back to the railing and my legs stretched out in front of me, is the thought of what if – what if Jack is really not pretending? What if he has really not noticed anything? What if I were to grab him and shake him and yell at him: "Admit that you lay awake last night, listening, while I interfered with myself! Admit that you have noticed it every time I have looked at you!" and he had no idea what I was talking about? No flogging or keelhauling would be as severe a punishment as the sheer mortification if that was the case – not to mention that if he had not suspected before, then he would certainly know now.

And so I keep my tongue and remain seated, settling for an occasional glare and – as far as possible – the use of monosyllabic words when called upon to speak – and if he notices, then he does not show it.

An observation: anger does not in any way shorten the length of the day – quite the contrary (or so it feels). Finally, evening comes – and so does suppertime. Bowls are passed out with something I suspect was intended to be lobscouse, but was left on the fire for so long that it has turned into a kind of thick soup. The amount of meat is negligible – perhaps five or six tiny pieces in every bowl. After some fishing I finally manage to catch one – only to see it stolen by the sharp teeth of a silver-furred feline.

The words that leave my mouth are hardly some that I use often – in fact, I am fairly certain that I have never before uttered at least two of them on any previous occasion – but right then they seem appropriate, as I glare at the cat that has just stolen part of my dinner with the same ease that it stole my good night's sleep as well as my peace of mind.

As I turn back to my meal, I catch a glimpse of Jack out of the corner of my eye. It would appear that his eyebrows are presently located at least an inch higher on his face than I seem to remember.

"Now, where did such a fine and upstanding fellow such a yerself learn to talk like that?" He sounds almost impressed. I refrain from giving him an answer, but a moment later I make a sound of disgust as he actually offers the bloody cat one of his own pieces of meat.

"That's hardly becoming, my dear Commodore James – what has this poor kitty ever done to your own self?" As if I would dream of telling him.

"You mean apart from stealing my supper instead of catching its own?"

"Ah, but I thought you knew – cats only bother people they like," he smiles and winks at me.

"Well, if you knew that, why did you not acquire some less bothersome ratters?" I ask, thinking of a trio of terriers my first captain had. Excellent ratters, all three of them – and they never climbed on you or jumped into bed with you or stole your food right out of your hand (though they did have a habit of begging at the table).

"Ah, but I _like_ cats, Commodore James. We understand each other, them and me, savvy?" Oh, I am sure they do – blackguards the lot of them. "But I suppose I could have taken Anamaria's advice…"

"Which was?"

"Snakes."

"Snakes?"

"Aye, you know – long, scaly, seem to have left their legs in their other skin. 'Course, you'd need quite a lot of 'em – lazy critters, snakes. They'll eat themselves a nice, juicy rat, see – and then they won't even bother to look at another for a week or more…"

I listen with barely half an ear to Jack pointing out all the ways in which snakes are inferior to cats, and I imagine if it had been a snake that had crawled into the bed last night, sliding and encircling skin, slithering in under clothes, up a pant leg. I shudder in sheer disgust. Jack chuckles – oh, so –that- he noticed. I send him a disgusted look which merely turns the chuckles into real laughter. Forcing myself not to react, I turn my attention back to my neglected meal.

After dinner Jack sees fit to challenge me to a game of whist. I find myself looking at him doubtfully – after all, whist is a gentleman's game, and Jack is hardly a gentleman. On the other hand that has not stopped him so far – so I accept his challenge, almost expecting to lose. The necessary materials for the game are assembled on deck – a table and four chairs, a deck of cards decorated with very inappropriate images that seem to be inspired by ancient Greek pottery (and which make the crewmen who have begun assembling begin to mutter, until someone reminds them that there is no prohibition against betting on card players), a couple of extra players – Jack picks for his partner an elderly pirate dressed in what must once upon a time have been a gentleman's clothes, including a wig that looks – well, dead – the man's name escapes me. My partner turns out to be Mr. Marty, who sends me a sour look. I suppose, if I had ever any doubt about losing, then it is gone now.

The four of us sit down to play.

I think the one that is most surprised is Jack, though I dare say I follow a close second as the points begin to accumulate (for we play for points only – it strikes me as very odd that on naval vessels I have seen (but only rarely participated in) games where the wages of many months were at stake, but here – among the scum of the seven seas – we only play for points ("'cause of the Code, savvy?")). The reason for our surprise? It would appear that The Black Pearl's captain is not the only man capable of surprising people – as it turns out, Mr. Marty is a more than able whist-player. As a matter of fact, I do not believe I have ever encountered anyone better – and I have the good fortune to be his partner.

At first Jack takes it fairly well, joking and gossiping as is his wont. Then he quiets down, focussing – his brow furrows. After a while the game ends. Asked if he would care for another, Jack simply answers: "No."

It seems like a role reversal has taken place – being on the winning side of the game has to a certain degree cheered me up (especially since Jack was on the losing side, though I admit it is an unbecoming reason). Jack, on the other hand, seems – I would almost say offended. Odd – I would never have taken him for a sore loser. Nevertheless, that is how he acts. He does not tell stories, does not sing drunken songs, does not laugh and only drinks a surprisingly small amount of rum.

He retires early – for the first time before myself. I stay on deck to watch the stars for a bit before deciding that doing so for much longer without him holds little appeal – the crew seems to have gotten used to my presence, but there is no reason to risk some enterprising fellow throwing me overboard under cover of darkness, hoping the captain will not find out who did it (or if he does, that when the deed is done and cannot be undone, then the repercussions will not be so severe).

Entering the cabin I notice that Jack has already climbed into bed – and that he has gathered every blanket, pillow and cushion in his arms or behind his back. I divest myself of as much clothing as I am willing to do in company, then take a long look at the very empty half of the bed that I have grown to think of as mine. Then I turn to Jack and politely ask him to relinquish a blanket. His answer is to simply tighten his hold, moulding his face into a – a pout? Now that is just childish. But very well, then.

A brief bout of something halfway between a wrestling match and tug-of-war later, I find myself in possession of a blanket. I briefly consider a second attempt in the hopes of securing a pillow as well, but decide against it and start walking around the bed, heading for my side of it.

And then a pillow hits me on the side of my head.

I pause and turn to look at Jack, who looks perfectly innocent – or as innocent as a scallywag like him can manage (which is about as much as a little boy caught with his sticky fingers in the cookie jar). I bend down, pick up the pillow and continue on my way.

And then a second pillow hits me, this time on the shoulder. This time there is no trace of pretended innocence. It has been replaced by a glittering in Jack's eyes, the curve of a small smile on his lips. Looking at him I adjust my grip on the first pillow. I raise my eyebrow.

Jack's smile widens into a grin. His stretched-out legs – hidden beneath a blanket – begins to be pulled up under him. I lift my leg and place a foot on the bed. Jack rises, the blanket sliding off him to lie in a pile by his feet.

The engagement has begun.

After a little while, things begin to fall. First, a whirling whiteness originating from an uncommonly fluffy pillow, a downy blizzard to remind me of surprisingly old memories of real ones. They are soon joined by one of my shirt buttons, torn free when Jack grabs hold to steady himself (and is rewarded for his trouble with a pillow to his face). The brass button rolls away, across the floor and into a hidden corner.

Soon, words begin to fall from our lips – few at first, then – slowly – more and more – mock threats, at first, and silly challenges, low growls and whoops and then, after a while, laughter. Almost cautious to begin with, and it feels somehow strange in my mouth, but then – little by little – it begins to feel more and more right. And as it does, it feels as if with every laugh, all my worries and anxieties, my indignation and anger and frustration fall with it, a dribble turning into a flood, emptying my mind of all that has been dammed up during my captivity and before – until there is nothing left. Only a feeling as if it has gotten somehow easier to breathe, the air less heat-stuffy, a heaviness that has been lifted from my shoulders and chest. My laughter mixes with Jack's – his eyes are gleaming and there is no trace of his earlier sullenness – and I feel nothing except that this is right and good.

Gasps for air begin to mingle with the laughter. Slowly it dies away. Still we fight, pillows and cushions flying, whirling through the air as we duck, feint, jump. Beads of sweat form on our foreheads, sparkling like so many diamonds, trailing glitter-tracks. And as they fall, they take even more with them – gnawing memories, my awareness of where I am, who I am, who the man currently hitting me in the face with a pillow is – all of it falls away, emptying me little by little.

The last thing the sweat takes with it is my knowledge of how to keep my balance – it is hardly surprising that this is soon followed by the fall of both myself and my worthy opponent. And so we lie on the bed, hearts pounding, trying to catch our breaths – and there is nothing else in the world.

Awareness returns only slowly. After a little I grow aware of a pressure on my chest – apparently my opponent has fallen down on top of me. It strikes me that we were probably quite lucky to fall on the bed and not on the hard, hard floor.

It feels like a long time that I just lie here, taking slow, deep breaths, letting heart slow down, feeling warm and empty and sleepy – if I was to choose a word to describe this long moment, it would have to be contentment. I feel content.

However, after a while, I grow aware of the fact that I seem to have fallen on top of some cushions. Now they are three uncomfortable lumps under my back, and the weight of the man on top of me – Jack, his name is Jack – Jack's weight does not exactly alleviate this discomfort. If I fall asleep like this – something that seems more and more likely, as my eyelids grow heavier and heavier – then I shall regret it profoundly come morning.

Jack is sheer deadweight – I suppose he must have fallen asleep – as I try to get comfortable before going to sleep (a process ideally involving getting rid of the cushions and having Jack wind up on the floor – or just not on top of me anymore). I succeed in getting rid of two of the cushions and have almost dislodged the pirate when he slips an arm around my waist (pushing the final cushion away in the process) and part moves, part slides on top of me, getting more comfortable. The tip of his nose impacts with the emerald lying on my chest, sending it tumbling away. It does not seem to bother him. In fact, I cannot even tell if he is awake.

I plant a hand on his shoulder and try to push him away – he does not as much as budge. Both hands on his chest – some give, but not nearly enough – and still no reaction. Then I try to move sideways and suddenly his grip tightens and a knee pushes back against my thigh. Jack's free hand reaches up to pat me a couple of times (and I shall be generous and presume that it was not my nose he intended to pat, that it is simply a mistake due to his facing the other way, eyes probably still closed).

"Stop wriggling, there's a good Commodore Pillow," he half-mumbles into the fabric of my shirt.

No, no, no, no, no! Absolutely not. I am not going to let him degrade me into a –pillow- - there has to be a limit, and this must be it. I will not. It is improper – even if we are both wearing breeches and I a shirt as well – and besides, after what happened last night, it is even more out of the question. After all, what if my body decides to repeat the performance? Then mortification would not be a sufficiently strong word. So it is simply out of the question.

"Sparrow, get off…" I start, pushing at him yet again.

This time his fingers find what they are supposed to – or so I fancy, since their pressure against my lips fit quite well to the words: "Shh, 's sleepy-time." Jack moves as he speak, getting even more comfortable on top of me.

Oh, but this is an outrage. Is this how Jack Sparrow treats his guests? Although I must admit that his latest shifting around has actually made the arrangement marginally less uncomfortable by shifting some of his weight off of me. Not that it is nearly enough to make me forgive him for curling up on top of me – just like a big cat. A brief burst of memory tempts me to cover my nose, but I resist – catlike Jack might be, but I somehow doubt that he will act like Gold did yesternight. I am also beginning to strongly doubt my ability to move the man – currently pretending to be asleep (for I have no doubt that he is still awake), his breaths slipping in through the opening left by a shirt button that has come undone, tickling the fine hairs on my chest. All of which is quite unacceptable, and if I was not so tired I would do something about it. As it is my mind thinks strange thoughts, no doubt due to said tiredness – how else could it ever cross my mind to consider my current predicament cosy? On top of me, Jack simply breathes – long, slow, tickling breaths, and I can practically feel his chest rise and fall, separated from me by a mere piece of fabric.

I give up.

With a deep sigh and a brief prayer that there will be no repetition of last night, I allow my eyes to close. If Jack's lips curve into a smile I cannot feel it through the fabric of my shirt.

It feels like only a moment has passed (though it must be longer, for I glimpse the dawn through the windows) when I am awoken by the feeling of warm skin moving under my palm. Jack is almost out the door before I have time to realize that my arm must have curled around him of its own volition during the night.

Oddly enough, I start this day in an uncommonly good mood – despite the sleeping arrangements of the bygone night. The uncommon awakening does not have the power to dispel this feeling, nor the sweat-soaked state of my clothes, requiring that I change. Even when I catch a glimpse of myself in Jack's mirror and realize that I am badly in need of a shave, it does not change – I simply find my razor and get to work.

The suddenness and noisiness of Jack's return, carrying breakfast for two, makes me lose my concentration long enough to feel a brief, sharp pain on my chin, but even this small accident does not have the power to destroy my inexplicable feeling – not even when a frowning Jack puts down the bowls of porridge, takes the razor from me and proceeds to shave me. I know I ought to feel angry or even nervous at the thought of a pirate holding something this sharp so very close to my throat – but I do not. I just stand there, meekly, and if I feel anything it is a vague embarrassment at having cut myself – something I have not done for the longest time even in the worst weather.

Jack dabs the cut with a rum-soaked rag and it almost hurts more than the cut itself – and still I feel cheerful. He downs some of the bottle's remaining contents, then grins when I smilingly shake my head at the offer of some. We sit down to eat our now-cool porridge, and still that feeling is there.

It is going to be a fine day.

It is not until we leave the cabin – since it is that time when it begins to grow uncomfortably hot – that my conviction begins to waver. And then I see Anamaria stalking across the deck and the wavering worsens, even though her glare is not for me – not this time.

"Ye all stink!" and her eyes sweep across the pirates who have come out to enjoy the relative coolness above deck. It is a very accurate assessment, it must be admitted. A considerable number of Jack's men are indisputably a part of the great unwashed. And even those who have otherwise made a habit of relative cleanliness have been severely impaired by the deplorable state of the water just around The Pearl. Personally, I have been having wistful thought about my lovely bath and my nice, cool swim of not too many days ago.

But I digress.

Anamaria's fairly accurate assessment of the situation is met by a few comments along the lines of: "Well, what d'ye want us to do 'bout it?" spoken in tones leaving precious little doubt about whether the speakers believe that any possible solution to this problem exists. Unfortunately for them, the piratess has already come up with one – unfortunately, because this particular solution is of a sort to cause quite a few objections, many of which refer to the fact that the proposed solution is both unhealthy and most likely very bad luck. It is soon pointed out to the objectors that it would be even more unhealthy and even worse luck to refrain from agreeing to Anamaria's 'proposition'.

And so it is officially declared washing day – despite widespread muttering and grumbling (including from the Captain, which surprises me, since he has not previously shown any particular aversion to basic cleanliness). A few empty water barrels as well as every container that can conceivably be pressed into service for the purpose – including several chamber pots, a couple of emptied kegs, some pots and the bathtub. From somewhere soap appears. Boats go out, manned by strong rowers, and the clean seawater they return with is taken to the galley where a good fire has been stoked.

From every corner of the ship, from every nook and cranny, clothing begins to appear, as if by magic. Breeches, shirts, scarves, waistcoats, sashes, stockings, drawers – even a few dresses (and none of them appear to belong to Anamaria), as well as a few more exotic garments the names of which are mostly unfamiliar to me. It is with a sinking feeling that I am led back into the cabin and told to gather my laundry (slightly rumbled, but folded neatly enough, all to be found in my sea chest), while Jack begins to gather his own. From chairs and corners and nooks and crannies and tops of cabinets he drags it out, then kneels down and reaches in under the bed. I turn away, expecting some comment about the state of a particular shirt, but none appears. When I turn back, he is staggering to his feet, a surprisingly big pile of clothes in his arms which he is trying not to drop on his way out – a challenge, especially until I take pity on him and open the door for him.

I trail after him, my eyes perversely searching the moving clothing-pile for the object of my concern, but the fact that seven probably-white sleeves are protruding from as many corners of the pile makes it more or less impossible to determine if one of them might be attached to it. None of them –appears- to be torn, but – and then the pile is tumbling, falling, getting lost in a blur of foam and steam, gone from sight.

Jack turns around to find the sight of me standing with my far smaller load still in my arms. Without further ado he relieves me of it, dumps it into the nearest not-yet-full container of soapy water – and I feel somewhat wistful as I see it go, wondering if it is realistic to hope that I will actually be able to reclaim these breeches and shirts when the current chaos ends, or if I will be given some other clothing instead or maybe none at all.

My musings are cut short when I notice that Jack is pulling off his shirt and that all around us men are doing the same, stripping until they are standing in nothing but breeches or – in some cases – simply nothing. I retreat from the improvised orgy of washing before someone might suggest that I should also take the opportunity to wash myself as well as my clothes – unlike most of the crew I have been trying to keep up a minimum of cleanliness and therefore I feel less of a need. From a safe distance I watch men who for all their earlier protestations seem to be perfectly happy with splashing and scrubbing and pouring the occasional bucket of water over each other, until everything is wet and soapy and glistening – and of course Jack is right in the middle of it.

It amazes me how carefree this pirate crew is capable of being. Here we are, becalmed for more than a week now, and yet not one seems to be overtly worried. True, we have only recently left port – the water is still fresh and not yet the unpleasantly lively liquid it will turn into eventually, the food is still fresh and not yet alive and crawling off the plates. Also true, that if worst comes to worst, The Black Pearl has her sweeps and could make an attempt to reach shore by way of them. Even so, there seems to be no attempts made to ration the supplies – something unheard of anywhere else I have been, and in my eyes a sensible precaution since there is no way of telling how long it will be before the wind returns. But the only acknowledgement of our situation would appear to be the whistling, which – as every sailor knows – can lure the wind – although I have witnessed a few squabbles about which particular tune works best. I see another such one now, as two pirates throw water and random wet clothing after one another in favour of drier arguments.

Youths, agile as monkeys, go aloft, long ropes in their hands. They string them out, from mast to mast, yardarm to yardarm, rigging to rigging and everything to everything, until it forms a crisscrossing web that would make any spider proud. Once the last rope has been attached to their satisfaction, the youths come back down – but only to climb back up straight away, carrying the far more cumbersome load of very wet clothing. Trailing a wake of drops – drip, drip, drip – they carry their load forward, starting in the bow and working their way aft, gradually covering The Pearl in a canopy of laundry – and all of it drip, drip, dripping. It feels as if a rain cloud has somehow appeared and settled right on top of us – and nowhere on deck can a man stay dry, so I settle for moving myself out of the way of the worst 'rain'.

Once the last item of clothing – which my eyes tell me is a kilt, improbable as that might be – has gone aloft, the washing water is put to one last use. Strong men topple the tubs and barrels, sending waves of soapy, tepid water out across the deck, to break against bare feet and ankles and form tiny maelstroms at every scupper. Men move through the water, seeming disorganized, and yet, when the last water is gone, the deck is left the cleaner for it. The improvised wash tubs are returned to their various original locations – no doubt also the cleaner for this experience – and it is done.

Noon heat approaches now, and I suppose it is just as well that the washing is all done. The heat is overpowering – the fake rain soon stops and when I crane back my neck I can see mist rising from the many layers of fabric. The deck also dries completely in very little time – fortunately, since most of the crew sink down on it – in many cases on the very spot they happen to be standing on – surrendering to the sun's might.

Jack slumps against a mast, patting the dark wood, his lips moving. I am not close enough to actually hear what he is saying, but I fancy he might be promising his precious ship that the indignity of laundry day will soon be over. Then he turns his back to the mast, leaning on it, his head falling forward and every braid and trinket following suit, forming an eccentric veil, unrestrained by the bandanna he has surrendered to the warm water.

Personally I find a place by the railings fairly close to Jack where I can collapse comfortably – and almost immediately regret it, but cannot make myself attract undue attention by moving. Instead I lean back, unbuttoning my shirt nearly completely – for the heat is too much, heavier and worse than on any of the previous days – I find that I could not care less about propriety. I lean my head back against the railings and close my eyes to block out the sight that I know would otherwise find my gaze perversely attracted to it: a long-sleeved, white shirt, the left sleeve partly shredded as if by claws, hanging right in the middle of my field of vision. Even with my eyes closed I can almost see it. My imagination tempts me to open my eyes, just to take a peek, to see if the white colour is the same almost-pristine all over – but I resist.

Sounds fade – conversations, hushed to begin with, ebb out, random whistling ceases, no planks groan as nobody moves. There is silence.

And then there is a jingling sound.

At first my mind ignores the faint jingle – after all, it has become a common occurrence. Every time Jack shakes his head or nods or moves quickly it is heard. Then I hear the jingling again, and I realize that there is something wrong about it, though I am unsure exactly what it might be. And then there is a third faint jingling noise and suddenly I know.

It is _too_ faint.

Whenever Jack's mane is put in motion, the trinkets will collide, making more noise than this. And if Jack is moving, then where are the other noises? Where is the creaking of planks under his feet, the muttered annoyance from whoever has to make way for his progress on the crowded deck? Where?

I open my eyes and look straight at Jack. His dark eyes are visible behind the veil of his own hair, but he has not moved a muscle. The hair hangs down, motionless. And then a single trinket moves – barely, just barely, but it moves, and as it does the jingling sound is heard for the fourth time.

Around me men are stirring, sailing men realizing the significance – some swiftly, some not so. A few are getting to their feet. Jack is raising his head, slowly, inch by inch, taking care not to put his hair decorations in motion. Everyone – myself included – are almost deadly silent – as if this is some spell, some sorcery, and a single word will dissolve it, like some desert fata morgana.

Like some tiny animal, the faintest of breezes slides up my thigh, up my belly. It dips into my navel, jumps back out, then slithers its way up my torso like some intangible snake, eventually coming to rest, curling up at my collarbone. Throughout I sit still as a statue, not moving a muscle, as if worried the wind is some shy animal that might be easily spooked.

The men work in silence, directed by gesture, not word, and sails are set, carefully adjusted until the breeze fills them, and the silence is broken at last by the sound of straining wood. I get to my feet and look over the railings and aft – it is faint, barely noticeable, yet undeniable: a wake. We are once again on our way.

Words are heard now, but only just this side of whispers – as if no man desires to risk drowning the noises of a ship underway. Jack himself has taken the helm, smiling widely at nobody in particular. I lean back against the railings, letting my eyes close again, revelling in the breeze.

And then, as if the gentle zephyrs have quite suddenly lost all meekness and taken up pugilism, the wind slams into my stomach, making me gasp and nearly double over, tearing loose my only buttoned shirt button.

I look out at the horizon and see it darken, fast enough to be abrupt. I suddenly feel chill and turn my attention to buttoning my shirt again, thin as it is.

Suddenly, everybody's attention is diverted when one end of one of the laundry lines is torn free with a thundering crack. It must be called luck that it narrowly misses Mr. Gibbs.

Above the hubbub – for now nobody worries about scaring away the wind – I can hear Jack roar: "Get those bloody lines down! Batten the hatches! Douse all fires!" I walk towards him, halfway thinking to offer my advice – for I have seen my share of storms at sea and besides, while I would never be able to justify aiding a pirate at most things, then weathering a storm is certainly one thing that I can – especially since it will clearly be in my own best interest to do so. Of course, I will most likely find that he is already taking the necessary steps to make sure his beloved Pearl does not end her days as driftwood.

Imagine my astonishment when I draw near and hear him giving orders to the effect that certain sails are to be set and I realize that he means to make use of the storm. Perhaps in a ship that had actually been cared for in the last decade, but in this ship? This ship, so debilitated I am not even sure that her masts can bear half the strain that this storm will put on them without falling? It is madness.

A considered opinion that I find myself quite unable not to share with the man whose madness it is.

"Ah, how good of you to remind me. Commodore, get ye below," is his only answer, and he barely spares me a glance.

Below? Below like some common landlubber? As if I am not a man of the sea, as I have not ridden out many a storm on deck? He wants me to hide below?

Once again I find myself unable not to share my opinion. This time I actually warrant a frustrated sigh.

"Tell me, Commodore, what is the single most dangerous thing a captain can have on deck when things get – interesting?" I hold my tongue and he soon answers his own question. "Someone bloody well questioning his orders, that's bloody well what! So get ye below – savvy?"

And of course he is quite right. I can think of few things more likely to cause a disaster than if the men were exposed to contradicted orders. Nevertheless, my answer is still: "No."

"No? Do you think that wise, Commodore?" His voice is low and cold and I know that I am no longer talking with Jack, my eccentric host. This is the pirate captain, the man who had me flogged for disobeying his order, and I find myself having absolutely no illusions regarding whether or not that might happen again if I am not careful.

"Indeed, Captain. Surely, in a storm you will need every able-bodied man you have?" I refrain from commenting on the fact that several crewmen have actually gone below already, out of the way, taking the ship's assorted animals with them

"Able-bodied, _obedient_ men, aye."

"I understand the need for discipline under the given circumstances, Captain."

"Oh good," and just like that it is once again Jack. He grins. "Now, go get yerself a coat and some oilskins, then come back up here. Oh, and a safety line."

"A safety line?" I am indignant. I am not some landlubber who needs…

"Aye, 'cause I don't much fancy explaining to the Admiralty how I let their fine Commodore get himself washed overboard by a bit of a blow, savvy?" A raised eyebrow warns me that the step from Jack to the Captain is a very short one at times.

"Very well, Captain."

Some of the crew – young Mr. Hawkins among them – snigger as I make my way to the cabin to fetch what I have been instructed to. I ignore them, but allow myself a small smile at the sound of Jack asking them what is so bloody funny and why are they not getting their own safety lines, considering that The Pearl does not have enough men to be able to afford losing even "a bunch of poxed buggers like yourselves" to the storm.

I quickly return to Jack by the helm, narrowly avoiding being pushed overboard by one of the now frequent gusts of wind. Then I begin to put the extra safety line I brought around his waist.

"Oy, what's this?"

"Surely, a captain should be the first to obey his own orders – in order to set a good example. Besides, I would hate having to explain to young Mr. Turner and Miss Swann how I let their favourite pirate get himself washed overboard by a bit of blow, as I believe you so eloquently put it."

"Bloody cheeky Commodores," he grumbles, but allows me to finish what I have started, then instructs me to grab hold of the helm and lend my strength to his.

And thus I find myself standing at the helm of the most notorious pirate ship in the Spanish Main, feeling the immense pull under my hands, as the world grows dark and the wind strengthens. All around men are struggling with laundry and sails, and Jack bellows some new order every few moments. I, on the other hand, find myself in the novel position of having to follow orders instead of giving them – although the orders to me are simply given by acts, as I am expected to simply follow Jack's lead. A task that leaves me plenty of time to observe.

The sea grows dark – no longer even blue, but a deep, dark, leaden grey making dark promises. It rises and falls, rises and falls – and every time a little more. The Pearl slides down into small valleys and up onto hills.

The dark clouds come rolling in over the ship. I crane my neck back and see the St. Elmo's fire dancing in the riggings, bright and blue and eerie. I remember sailors telling that ships where St. Elmo's fire is seen will not sink in a storm, remember wondering if it might be true or if the men who were aboard such ships were simply never able to tell anybody apart from Davy Jones.

Lightning flashes in the horizon. The thunder comes rolling, languorous, low – only barely louder than the growing roar of the wind. Louder even is the creaking of strained masts, pulled at violently by bulging sails. Eventually – an eventually dangerously long in the coming in my eyes – Jack bellows for one to be taken in. Another eternity before the next bellow, and then again, and again.

Under my hands The Pearl is a wild animal, fighting to tear free. I spread my legs and fight back with all my might.

The lightning has come closer, far too close for comfort now – if one of them hits us, it will probably spell our doom – and every thunder-crack roars louder than the howling, screaming, shrieking wind. In the white flashes of brilliant light I can see The Pearl rise and fall, the sea turned into mountain after mountain, grey and merciless as granite.

I turn my head to look at Jack, illuminated by lightning, and what I see both frighten and fascinate me. His eyes are shining, his hair dancing wildly with the wind, and he is laughing, laughing as wildly as any storm, though I cannot hear it over the wind.

I stand next to him and the wind howls like a wounded animal, like many wounded animals. The ocean churns and the lightning flashes and the thunder roars. I sweat and I feel my muscles grow tender from the strain, but I never relent.

At some point, the darkness grows darker still – blackness everywhere, black as the ship. I pray that we are far from land, for in this darkness we will not see it before we are hurled onto it by the waves or crushed against it.

My face grows wet and I halfway suppose it to be salt spray, but I am thirsty – have been for quite some time now – so I open my mouth, hoping for it to be rain, sweet rain. It is. Drops trickle down my tongue, down my parched throat, refreshing.

Time passes. The rain falls, the wind howls, lightning, thunder, darkness – it all simply is. And so is Jack, still at my side, now mostly silent, for the last sails have long since been furled and there are no more orders to bellow – and his laughter has ceased.

And then it starts to cease – the lightning flashes grow rarer, the thunder fainter. The sea calms. The rain turns into a drizzle, then stops completely. The world goes from black to dark to leaden grey – and from that to the deepest, darkest blue. The wind fades – not completely, but it settles at a fresh breeze.

At one point I am shocked at the sound of Jack's bellow – unnaturally loud, as it seems – as he orders men aloft to set the sails once more. And then the sun rises, fiery red and orange and yellow, bathing the world in light. Bathing me in light, practically slumped over the helm as I am.

I blink – not quite awake somehow. There is an almost dreamlike quality to the activity on the deck, men who have weathered out the storm below - men who have slept at least a little – handling the morning chores. Mr. Marty is gathering the fish that has been thrown up on deck during the long night, then sits down to clean them. After a while a scent of frying fish and – almost unbelievably – coffee reaches my nostrils.

And still I stand, watching without really noticing anything around me.

A bloody fish gut throw casually overboard. A harsh cry. Something dirty white-grey catching the redness before a splash is caused.

I turn my head slowly, too tired to follow the gull with only my eyes. I free myself from the helm – my fingers almost seem to have petrified in their curled position, and they take some time to disentangle – and stagger over to the railings, leaning heavily on it.

Staring.

In the middle of the bright, blue sea, outlined by the dawn sun, is an island. It is not a very big island – compared to Jamaica it is not even a dwarf – but an island nonetheless. Most of it seems to consist of a large, rocky area – steep and inhospitable-looking, almost a mountain. Nearest to us are trees, deep green, growing closely together, lushly, jungle-like. White sand separates them from the ocean. It looks quite pretty, like an absolutely marvellous place to stop for a bit. I wonder, though the thought is of course quite ridiculous, if this might be Jack's 'island that cannot be found'.

"Aye, that be the place."

I am not sure what surprises me more – Jack's voice suddenly coming from right behind me or the fact that I must have spoken out loud.

"Pretty, isn't it?" A pointed chin comes to rest on my shoulder.

"Quite." I feel my legs giving up under me and slowly collapse on the deck, blinking up at the pirate still standing.

"Tell me, Captain Sparrow..:"

"How's about ye call me Jack, eh, my dear Commodore James?"

"Jack." I close my eyes, tasting the name, finding it not unpleasant. "Yes, Jack. So, Jack, would you mind terribly if I were to fall asleep on your quarterdeck?"

"Only if you'd mind me joining you." And he glides down to lie next to me, closing his eyes and apparently falling asleep immediately.

"Oh. Good." But even though I am terribly tired, I find myself unable to fall asleep. I lie with my head on the hard wood and a thousand thoughts whirl through it, keeping me awake. Thoughts about the island we have arrived at, about the sheer impossibility of it being Jack's island, the sheer impossibility of somehow miraculously navigating through such a storm and successfully finding any particular place, the greater likelihood of it simply being some convenient coincidence that Jack has seized as an opportunity. Thoughts about Jack – this man asleep next to me – my captor, my genial, albeit eccentric host, my enemy, my… Mad, absolutely and completely, and yet. The very thought of the seamanship required to sail a ship that has almost degenerated into a wreck due to a decade of neglect through a tropical storm, let alone required to actually find a particular island (if indeed it is that island) under such circumstances. Thoughts about madness and brilliance and the fine line between the two. Thoughts about Jack laughing with the storm.

Thoughts crowding my mind, going over and under and around each other, starting, stopping, colliding, splitting, uniting, and somehow I think two, three, four, a dozen things at once. And then a single thought pulses through my brain – ridiculous, insane, impossible – and suddenly my mind is completely empty of all other thoughts.

I know – I need – to consider this thought, to rationalize it, refute it, pacify it. To prove its madness, disprove its point, argue with it.

Alas, my treacherous body decides to fully exploit the sudden lack of activity in my mind. I feel my eyelids sinking – cutting off the view of my 'bedfellow' – and my body plummeting into rest. The very last thing I do before letting completely go of the waking world is to let the thought – preposterous, impossible, insane – run through my mind one more time.

I think I am falling in love with this man.


	10. "I Am Not Going To Be Your Latest Plaything!"

I must have lost my mind. It is the only logical explanation. Completely and utterly insane.

I suppose they ought to take me away and lock me up in Bedlam. Then the keeper would come by my cell with his gaggle of well-paying gawkers and say: "Look 'ere, look 'ere. Would you believe, that this 'ere fellow used to be a right proper Commodore. 'Ad it all, 'e bloody well nearly did – and then what do you think the silly bugger went and did? 'E fell in love! With a pirate!" and the ladies in the group would have trouble deciding whether to giggle or be properly scandalized, and any man of a clerical persuasion would make some comment about the wages of sin.

Absolutely and completely stark raving mad.

Sometimes it seems to me as if it is the world itself that has gone mad as of late. Everything has been turned upside down, nothing is in its right place anymore – not even death. It sometimes feels like I am living some fantastical tale, some particularly odd picaresque. Sometimes it most of all seems like some delirious fever-dream.

Oh, but could that be it? Has this – all of this – perhaps simply been a particularly vivid dream? Surely, surely it is so. I must be ill – most likely I suffered a sunstroke at my promotion ceremony (the sun was so very hot that day, not a friendly breeze to be found in the courtyard of the fort, and all these layers of uniform – not at all appropriate for these climes, but will the Admiralty listen?) and everything since then has taken place while I have been confined to my bed, some good nurse by my side – perhaps even Miss Swann. And everything since – the failed proposal, the attack, the unnatural pirates, Miss Swann's humiliating rejection of me, even the very existence of the insufferable individual known as Captain Jack Sparrow – has simply been the product of my imagination.

Of course, that begs the question of why my imagination – fevered or otherwise – would ever conjure up a character such as Jack – but never mind.

Cheered immensely by this thought, I immediately reach out to do as many others have before me and attempt to ascertain whether it might be so. I pinch myself. Hard.

Nothing changes.

I am still sitting here, my back against the rough bark of a solid tree, my naked toes burrowed into the warm sand. Before me is still the same excellent view of the Black Pearl and her busy crew – and busiest of them all, their undeniably real captain.

Jack.

And when did he become Jack, anyway? When did I start to think of him by his given name? When did he cease to be Sparrow, the most infuriating pirate I had ever heard of, and begin to be Jack, the man I am falling in love with?

Except, of course, that I am most certainly not falling in love with him. After all, he is a man! And a pirate! A pirate who had me flogged! Annoying and infuriating, unbearably smug and insufferable, nothing I would lament being rid off. Clever and sneaky and cunning and smart, crazy and brilliant and cocky, brilliant and exotic and dazzling and fascinating and…

Very well, so I might very well be falling in love with Jack Sparrow, even if he is a man and a pirate to boot. Except that I cannot be. Because I am in love with Miss Swann. I mean I am in love with Elizabeth. But in that case, why has it been so very long since last I thought of her by her Christian name? And why is the thought of her no longer accompanied by that butterfly feeling in my chest, the feeling that would always make me stumble over my words in her presence? The feeling that flutters through me now at the thought of Jack…

So, perhaps I am in love with him. But surely, surely it is only a purely Platonic love. Surely.

I remember the feel of Jack's lips against mine, the feel of a sleeping embrace. I imagine – though I am somewhat hazy as to the details of such encounters between men – myself touching, him touching me.

My heart beats somewhat faster and by various other signs my body leaves me no room for doubt. It is not purely Platonic.

But then, perchance, it is only physical? Perhaps it is simply the effect of not having had any intimate company for so long, something that the surgeon aboard the Hippolytos used to warn the midshipmen against again and again, hinting at consequences most dire and unnatural (this was the same surgeon, who like clockwork would complain to the captain two weeks out from every port, because the common sailors' liberty ashore had practically emptied his fresh stores of medicine against such things as the great pox, but never mind). Perhaps these – these feelings are those dire consequences, are not real, are simply my body expressing its wants.

But if that is the case, why have my desires not directed themselves toward the woman aboard? Possibly simple self-preservation, but then it makes even less sense for them to be towards a man whom I have given every reason to desire my death.

I imagine never being touched by Jack and I feel a chill. I imagine never seeing his smile again or sharing a meal with him and I feel like the Arctic Sea.

Not purely physical then.

So, apparently, despite the fact that it is madness of the very worst sort in every conceivable way, I am well on my way to being in love with Jack Sparrow, Captain of the Black Pearl.

And of course he must never ever know.

Imagine the kind of power he would have, this pirate, if he knew himself to be loved by a Commodore of His Majesty's Royal Navy. Imagine how he might exploit it. If Miss Swann – a proper young lady of good family – was willing to make me sacrifice the lives of my men (though I cannot truly make myself believe that she intended for them to die, but, nevertheless, they did) for the sake of the boy she cared for – and then reject me in a manner that could hardly have been more public, more embarrassing, more scandalous – she might as well have left me at the altar! If she was willing to do all that when I offered her my heart…

I shudder to imagine what a pirate might be willing to do with it.

So no, under no circumstances can I entrust Jack Sparrow with this. It must be a secret. Besides, it is not like he would return my affections, so what would be the point? Oh, I have not been blind – I could hardly have missed Jack's habit of touching and kissing me at every turn or the innuendoes he seems to be fond of – I suspect that he would not hesitate to indulge in the physical acts with me, or so I flatter myself, at least. He would play with me and then tire of me and discard me. No. Better to have a secret heart than a broken one.

Oh damn it all to Hell!

I glare in the direction of the cause of all my miseries, but he is absorbed in a busily gesticulating discussion with Mr. Gibbs and Anamaria, not even looking occasionally in my direction. Which is as it has been for the last few days – ever since we came ashore. Now all of Jack's attention is focused on the beginning repairs of his precious ship. Me? He told me to "go wherever ye please, just don't get in the way." So I keep my distance, mostly.

Since the landing I have had one – one! – conversation with him. I was looking at the materials for the repairs that had been laid out on the beach, ready to be used. He was inspecting a pile of copper plates intending for use as sheathing. He held up one for me to look at.

"What d'ye think, Commodore James?"

"I think that I would have expected you to use gold for your precious ship, not something as common as copper."

"Ah, but my Pearl's a lady, not some Roman trollop. 'Sides, the point is to make her a faster hunter, not an appetizing piece of game, savvy?" and he grinned at me before returning his full and undivided attention to the metal.

Oh, but I am pathetic. I know that it is good thing that Jack has kept his distance. As long as he continues to do so, the chances that I might accidentally reveal my feelings are slim indeed, and perhaps I can even manage to suppress them – something that I doubt I could accomplish in the glare of his immediate presence. But despite all of my common sense, I cannot help but miss Jack's company. I miss his prattle and oddness, I miss his close presence – I even miss the Spanish lessons that were left behind aboard. I know perfectly well that Jack's whole purpose on this island is to repair the Pearl, but that does not prevent me from missing him – and resenting the whole situation.

My situation has made me think of a dazzling toy given to a child, while the trusty old favourite is away at Grandmother's for repairs. For a while the new toy is played with, but then the old favourite is returned and the new is left in a corner to gather dust and for spiders to hide behind.

It is not enough that I am in love with a pirate, I have to be jealous of his ship. Oh, but I am a sorry creature, am I not?

Not that that would be anything new. Ah, but I have a rare gift for choosing the absolutely wrong people to fall in love with.

The first time I fell in love (not the first time I indulged in the physical act – something which occurred at the country house of an uncle during a three week long leave during my time as a young midshipman, and which involved a stack of sweet-smelling hay and a very friendly milkmaid a few years my senior) – the first time I fell in love it was with an Admiral's wife.

I was still a midshipman then, though not a year away from my examination for lieutenant. The ship I served on, the Hippolytos, was laid up for repairs in Boston, and during this time we were all expected to attend various social events such as balls, as it would be beneficial to our character. My full dress uniform saw more use during those few weeks than in the three full years preceding them.

Her name was Sophie.

She was the jewel of the dance, only my elder by a few years, dazzling and with a smile for everybody, dancing and laughing. I think all the men present must have loved her at least a little.

It was only later that I realized how scandalous her behaviour actually was. I should have realized it when discreet inquiries produced the information that she was a married woman, but that her husband, Admiral von Schneider, an older gentleman, mostly left her in town while he was away at sea, leaving her practically a widow in all but name for long stretches of time. Not that she spent her time pining. No, quite the contrary, hardly a night went by without her going out, attending every dance and ball and recital in town.

I should have seen the way the old ladies present frowned at her, but at one point she favoured me with a brief smile and it outshone all else. In retrospect I wonder if the smile might not as easily have been intended for someone else who happened to be standing next to me at that moment, but at the time there was not a doubt in my heart.

I left the party with a faint flutter in my heart. Pleasant romantic fancies played out behind my eyes – saving the lady fair from wicked pirates and being awarded with a kiss was one. I was still young and still quite innocent as far as matters of the heart was concerned – besides, she was a married woman, and even if she had not been, then she was far too fine for the likes of a mere midshipman like me.

Still, at the next dance I was to attend, I did my best to look more than merely respectable – I even received a few pointed comments from my messmates. I ignored them.

I had been worried that she might not be there, that there might not be any chance of her catching even the faintest glimpse of me in my fine uniform with its gleaming buttons (those buttons alone had cost me hours of work before I was satisfied). But of course she was there, unmistakable and magnificent.

I am to this day not certain how I managed to work up the courage to ask her for a dance, but I did. It was scandalous, really – me, a mere midshipman and not even from a particularly wealthy or influential family, having the nerve to ask an admiral's wife for a dance. Even more scandalous was the fact that she accepted.

I had never danced so well, or so I felt. In retrospect I suppose it was her doing, her and her smiles. Her skill kept me from blunders and her conversation made me feel wiser than ever before, as if I was a far more experienced man of the world than I truly was. The way she smiled and the way she lowered her eyelashes made me feel - something more.

There was a lull in the music and the large room where the dancing was done was momentarily cast into confusion as people started to look around for friends and refreshments. My beautiful dance partner tugged at my sleeve, pulling me into a dark corner. Before I knew what was happening she had pushed aside a heavy tapestry – some hunting scene, a unicorn hunt I think it was – and pulled me through a narrow opening into a small room devoid of people.

Apart from her and I.

In the room was a luxurious sofa, all tassels and green velvet. She pushed me down into it, crawled onto my lap, her fingers not so much unbuttoning my shirt as tearing it open, her lips crushing against mine.

I was a young man and my blood could run as hot as that of any young man ever. Still, I am ashamed to say that I was – most enthusiastic.

We returned to the party somewhat later, slipping into the crowd undetected. Moments before she had been adjusting my collar, sneaking a kiss. Once we were out she left me with a wink and a smile.

The time until the next dance passed in something like a haze for me. I was reprimanded several times for inattention to my duties (such as they were), but I found myself unable to stop the daydreams. She was in many of them, of course. Well, to be honest, she was in all of them. I conjured up an image of her husband also – an old man, pox-marked no doubt, bald under his wig, ugly as sin – quite unworthy of such a lovely woman. In my mind he became the worst of all naval officers, his every command a veritable floating hell, not a sailor under him who had not tasted the lash often for perceived offences of the pettiest sort. I imagined that he treated his wife in a similar way. In my dreams I would confront this monster, deal with him. I would elope with her, afterwards, go somewhere far away and never come back.

Was I ever so young? It seems unreal sometimes.

When I was off duty I spent a lot of time writing bad poetry comparing her various charms to those of assorted pagan goddesses. Even now the memory of some of those lines can make me blush.

And every night, in my dreams, I found myself back on that sofa, her milk-pale skin smooth beneath my hands.

Finally – finally! – came the day of the next dance I was to attend, my next chance at meeting her. We had made no arrangements, but I imagined that she must be pining for her young lover, searching eagerly for him at every dance she attended.

I suppose, in a way, I was correct.

The officers attending the dance arrived together and it was some time before I could leave their company, but eventually I managed to begin my search. It was swiftly met with success, for there she was, dancing with a dashing young lieutenant. I smiled. Now all I had to do was catch her eye and she would be mine for the next dance and the rest of the evening – and maybe forever?

Or so I thought.

She saw me. She never acknowledged me. No wink, no smile, no elegant movement with her fan. I, on the other hand, could not tear my gaze away from her – as she danced, as she conversed with her lieutenant, as he brought her punch and preened like a peacock.

I could not tear my gaze away as she led him into the dark corner – for the dance was held as the same house as the last – and then away from sight.

I stood alone, frozen, cold, watching that very spot where they had last been. I waited, a drink in my hand quite forgotten. Over the noise of the music and the chatting people I could hear the ticking of an old clock, each tick a thundering roar with an abyss of silence stretching forever between them.

About half an hour later the pair reappeared, looking flushed. A lock of his hair had somehow escaped the confines of his wig. She tucked it back in its proper place and kissed him teasingly on the very tip of his nose – they must have thought themselves still unobserved. Then they parted.

The next thing I remember is standing outside, vomiting into the gutter. When finally all the twisting of my stomach could not bring forth any more I left. I walked and walked, no set destination in mind. I just walked.

I passed a bathhouse and then doubled back, not looking at the coins I handed the man when I demanded a fresh tub. The water was steaming, scalding hot, but I did not care. I got in and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until every part of me was red and raw, even the most intimate parts. I sat in that tub, scrubbing, until the water grew so cold that an employee at the place grew concerned that I might catch a cold from the chill of it. Then I got out, feeling as filthy as when I got in.

When I came back to the ship some time before dawn I found my poems and – suddenly filled with a violent rage – I tore the pages into so many tiny pieces that there was barely room for a single letter on each. Then I threw them overboard and stood there, watching as the currents and small waves parted them, mixed them, and – finally – carried them away. Then I was sick again.

I suppose it was a mercy that the ship left Boston three days later, headed for the Mediterranean with orders to save some Christian slaves from the Barbary corsairs. I shudder to imagine how it would have been, if we were to have joined Admiral von Schneider's squadron. As a youth I might well have imagined that he could have seen in my face that I had given him horns – ridiculous as that thought is. But my luck held with the husband, as it had not done with the wife.

Later I heard more or the Admiral, always forcing myself to listen well when he was the subject of conversation. An elderly gentlemen, somewhat cantankerous, but well-loved. Alas, he suffered from severe seasickness and so had always preferred to stay at sea to preserve his easily lost sea legs. He died a couple of years ago. I never knew if he knew about his wife's promiscuity. I never met him.

I left Boston behind and threw myself into my work, putting all my energy into performing my duties well and studying for my upcoming examination, which in time I passed with flying colours. I buried the memory of that sordid tryst under hours spent studying the stars, the skill of measuring when the sun was at its zenith, the art of knowing how to lead men. I spared few thoughts for women and, well, life at sea is not exactly ripe with opportunities for more than thoughts. Oh, I was a young man with a young man's needs, but I taught myself discipline and only broke my sailor's celibacy on the rare shore leaves with discreet ladies of negotiable affection (having no particular inclination for breaking Article XXIX or the possible consequences of so doing.)

I did not seek love among women. I had been burned and had little desire for a repetition. In my heart I had friendship for some of my messmates – and I told myself it was enough.

And so some years passed and one day the ship I served aboard then – the Icarus – took a prize and – having already taken so many others that we were running out of able midshipmen – I was instructed to take a small prize crew and bring her into a friendly port. Alas, we met an enemy vessel and were forced to surrender. I was sent home to England by the usual route, having given my word as an officer and a gentleman that I would not return to active duty until a prisoner had been exchanged for me.

As it turned out, they need not have demanded my word. The news that the Icarus had been caught in a fatal argument between a stormy sea and a rocky coast awaited me in England. Since the Navy always has more officers than ships to put them in, I found myself in London on half pay.

I had the great good fortune to find lodgings at the house a kind, old woman by the name of Mrs. Walker – a naval widow whose husband had had more luck with prizes than promotions and had left her somewhat more than comfortable. She ran her boarding house more like a charity than a business, once confiding in me that she enjoyed the company of all the polite young naval men. She was a kind old soul.

Across the street lived Mrs. Walker's somewhat younger sister, Mrs. Davenport, with their brother and their sister-in-law, Mr. And Mrs. Goodyear, as well as what at the time seemed like an entire regiment of young women, the in-laws having five daughters as well as a number of nieces and cousins staying with them, some permanently, some merely visiting.

Now, both Mrs. Davenport and Mrs. Walker were what some people would call insufferable matchmakers. Since one lived in a house full of young ladies and the other had a number of mostly young and mostly

gentleman lodgers, why, it was little wonder that not a week went by without some picnic or tea party or evening with some musical entertainment – properly chaperoned, of course. In truth, I found it rather pleasant – perhaps partly because half pay rarely leaves a man sufficient funds to indulge in most forms of entertainment.

And partly because of Miss Jane Badcock.

Oddly enough, I find myself unable to recall the first time I saw her or spoke with her. It simply happened and at some point it seemed the most natural thing in the world to stand next to her or ask her opinion about this or that. She had a sweet smile and I soon learned that we shared tastes when it came to literature.

At some time the two old sisters began to share knowing looks in my presence or stop their conversation when I drew near. I did not mind their assumptions, but continued to talk with Miss Badcock, take walks with her, enjoy her company – always properly chaperoned. Of course.

I knew little of Miss Badcock's personal history. She was neither daughter, niece nor cousin, but a somewhat more distant relation of the Goodyears. She was a somewhat pretty girl with little in the way of money – I always supposed that she had been sent to London in the hopes of attracting a suitable suitor.

And so it was that in the mornings I would go to the Admiralty in the hopes of a commission and, as those hopes were ever shattered, I began to consider if it would be appropriate to marry while still on half pay or if it would be more proper to wait until I could actually support a wife and perhaps some children in a respectable manner. Eventually I settled on a compromise and hoped that it would not have to be too long an engagement.

We had been meeting increasingly often, Miss Badcock and I, and I fancied that she had shown some inclination towards me. Particularly in the last couple of weeks, during which her smiles had been common and her laughter almost more so. I had even fancied that she had winked at me, almost coyly.

Finally came the day when we were alone together and I found myself sweating nervously, not exactly certain of how to put the necessary question into actual words.

I need not have been so nervous. As it happened, it was Miss Badcock who opened her mouth to speak first – and as she spoke, I felt the blood drain from my face.

She told me that she was with child. She told me that of course everyone would assume that I was the father, that everyone would assume that there had been unchaperoned meetings. She told me that I had no choice but to marry her – and soon. She threatened to destroy my reputation and my career both. And finally she demanded money.

I honestly cannot remember how I managed to answer her or what exactly my answer was. All I know is that I somehow managed to promise her money, more money than I could truly afford, without promising her a husband. Then we parted.

For the second time in my life I visited a bathhouse to scrub myself clean of a kind of intangible filth.

I did not sleep that night.

The next morning found me at the Admiralty as the first among hopefuls, desperate for a commission, desperate for a way to get far away from London, far away from the adventuress and whatever men she had fornicated with, far away from the child that was not mine.

There was no post for me that day, nor on the second, but on the third day Lady Luck at long last deigned to smile at me. Apparently, one Lieutenant Redford had managed to involve himself in a brawl and had emerged less than unscathed. In fact, his present condition was such that the ship he served aboard as third lieutenant – the HMS Dauntless – was due to leave without him within the week, to bring the new governor of Jamaica to his new home and afterwards to stay in the Caribbean as the new flag ship of the Jamaica squadron. Of course, there was no way the governor was to be inconvenienced by the delay caused by a lieutenant, so a replacement was needed. The post was mine if I wanted it.

And so it was that I found myself aboard a ship that I did not know would one day be mine to command, heading for a posting that was most unpopular among the officers of the Navy – particularly because of the great likelihood of never coming home to England again, having met one's end at the claws of some tropical fever.

In my darker moments I found that the thought actually appealed to me.

Behind me I left a somewhat confused Mrs. Walker, who though used to the abruptness of the demands of the service, had begun to expect a certain event to occur before my inevitable departure. Fortunately, she did not ask any questions. Even more fortunately, I contrived to avoid seeing Miss Badcock for the brief period of time before I left London behind.

It was a balm to my soul to leave her and almost her entire sex far behind, to be aboard a ship that of the female persuasion only carried the nanny goat that supplied the milk for Captain Farrow's tea, a few ships cats (one of which left precious little doubt as to her gender by determining that the ideal place to have her litter was in the good governor's second-best wig) – and a tiny girl with a somewhat annoying love of pirate tales, which a good number of men from before the mast were quite happy to cater to.

For every mile the ship left behind I found myself feeling slightly better. I did my duties and did them well, despite the slight resentment from a couple of my messmates who had rather liked Lieutenant Redford and were less than happy about me taking his place, even if he himself was most of all to blame. To my surprise, I would often find myself conversing with the good Governor Swann, an elderly gentleman with whom I ought to have had little in common considering our difference in station, and with his daughter.

The voyage went well – we had fair winds and encountered only the traces of pirates, but none of the despicable breed dared to show themselves – and soon enough we anchored at Port Royal. Governor Swann assumed his position in society and – on his daughter's insistence – found a position for the young Mr. Turner in town. The boy had become something of a favourite in the officers' mess and had been offered a place as midshipman, but Miss Swann and he had apparently grown rather friendly despite their great difference in class, and he accepted the position as a blacksmith's apprentice instead, so as to remain in the same town as his new friend.

Personally, I found myself transferred to the Zephyr, a small, but swift vessel that was ever in need of both officers and crew due to the climate as well as the fact that her standing mission was to hunt pirates and privateers – the Interceptor had been intended to take her place. I did not mind, even though she was a less prestigious ship to serve aboard than the Dauntless. After all, I was now second lieutenant, and I found a pair of fast friends in two midshipmen who in truth were quite old enough to pass for lieutenant themselves – Andrew Gillette and Theodore Groves.

And so life passed, with weeks at a time spent at sea, hunting pirates, smugglers and hostile privateers, occasionally escorting convoys and – depending on which way the political winds had blown a couple of months earlier in far-off Europe – taking prizes and engaging enemy ships in battle. I acquitted myself well during all of this, as did I on the few occasions when I was charged with leaving the Zephyr to visit the islands held by foreign powers and seek whatever pertinent information I might find in a clandestine manner. Perhaps that is why, when the captain and the first lieutenant both perished during an encounter with a particularly vicious band of Dutch privateers, I was given command of the ship.

The Zephyr was in many ways home, but so was Port Royal, whereto I found myself returning every few weeks for provisions, repairs and orders – and often I found myself a guest at the governor's mansion at such times. He and I had remained friendly since the shared crossing. At his table I would often find myself socializing with my superior, the old Admiral Giddens, whose flagship the Dauntless had ever been destined to be. It was he who eventually recommended me for promotion to post-captain and gave me the position of Captain of the Dauntless in his place, since his duties tended to demand that he remain ashore.

I suppose I ought to be praising luck for my successful career at such a young age, but in truth I suspect that it was partly Governor Swann's support and partly the fact that many better men were reluctant to accept a station in the fever islands.

The admiral took me into his confidence, listened to my proposals and my advice, explained matters of policy to me. In short, he was a mentor to me. I grieved when a slippery step in Fort Charles cost him his life.

Admiral Adorno, his replacement, fell sick with yellow fever within a week of his arrival and died soon after. During all this time I served as senior naval officer, with the kindly advice of Governor Swann. Still, it was a surprise when the new ship for our Jamaica squadron, the Interceptor, did not bring another replacement, but a promotion for me.

Now, during all these years, the only female company I had sought was in a discreet house of ill repute in Port Royal. Occasionally I had participated in various social occasions which brought me into contact with the colony's eligible ladies, such as they were – planters' daughters, merchants' sisters, officers' widows. All quite suitable for a man of my station, yet not a one appealed to me.

Then Miss Swann began to join her father at dinner, playing the part of hostess to perfection. At first I found it hard to think of her as a woman, the image of the child still in my mind from the distant days of our crossing, for I had only infrequently had occasion to see her since. Soon, I noticed that she was a lovely a young woman and quite intelligent, if still somewhat given to slightly improper flights of fancy – which somehow made her more appealing still.

Of course I knew that she could never be my wife, I harboured no such illusions. A rich young heiress wed to an admittedly successful naval officer, whose pirate-hunting would never bring in the rich prizes spoken of in the stories and whose accomplishments in the service were too remote and not often enough against esteemed enemies to earn him a title? Unlikely. Imagine my surprise when, on the eve of the Interceptor's arrival, Governor Swann made it clear to me in a private conversation that he was most receptive to the idea of me as a son-in-law.

And so, on the day of the ceremony to mark my promotion, I gathered all my courage and dared to hope that the third time might actually be the charm, as they say. It was not. Which, of course, brings me right back to where I started.

Cool blackness falls on me, as if a lonesome cloud has blocked the sun momentarily. When it does not cease, I sit up straighter and open my eyes, looking up at the silhouetted form of – who else? Why, Captain Jack Sparrow, of course.

"Nice nap, was it, my dear Commodore James?"

"I was thinking."

"'Course. Just resting your pretty eyes, aye?" He grins. Infuriating man.

"Was there something you wanted, Captain Sparrow?"

"Aye, well, see, it seems to me that I've been a – a less than perfect host, as it were, what with not spending any time with my honoured guest!"

"I see." I see that whatever it is he wants I ought to refuse it, ought not to risk spending one moment more than absolutely necessary in the company of this man, lest he suspect. "I imagine you must be rather busy, refitting the Pearl. A captain can hardly be faulted for having little time to spare from his ship."

"True, but still, that's no excuse, savvy? That's why we're going on a picnic."

"A picnic?" I can feel my eyebrow rising of its own volition.

"Aye, a picnic." A grinning madman, that is what he is, but a grinning madman who is now gesturing to the basket at his feet. "I've got us a nice supper here and", he bends down and roots through the basket's contents before triumphantly straightening to present a book, "and old Willy himself. And I know the perfect spot."

I should refuse, should not risk his company, not dare, not when he is grinning like this, the gold in his mouth outshone by the gleam in his eyes, not even though it is made even more tempting by the simple fact that for the last few days my only real company has been Silver and Gold, and even they have preferred exploring the island to keeping me company most of the time. But on the other hand I must not risk him suspecting that anything is different. Besides, if I refuse, he will probably simply find some way to force me to do as he wishes – as he has done before.

"Very well then, Captain Sparrow." I say, having first sighed my best long-suffering sigh, then getting to my feet. "Lead on, MacDuff."

He picks up his basket and begins to do as he is told for once, then turns back, still grinning.

"Oh, and Commodore James."

"Yes, Captain Sparrow."

"I seem to be recalling that you were supposed to be calling my good self Jack, aye?"

"Very well then. Lead on – Jack."

He grins even wider and does exactly that, basket bouncing in his arms and with me following at a sedate pace.

He leads us past the Black Pearl herself, lying like a huge, beached whale, taut ropes pulling her to the side to expose her vulnerable underside. Of course Jack himself stood at the helm when she was carefully beached, having been emptied of everything that could be removed to lighten her just that extra bit. Nobody else was allowed to steer her into the shallows in the sheltered cove, nobody else was trusted with his precious ship.

He leads us past the tents, put haphazardly here and there, past the tent that he and I have supposedly been sharing since the landing, though most nights I have had it to myself. At one end stands my ship's chest, my wrinkled, but clean clothes all present and accounted for inside it.

He leads us past the cooking fire, where a couple of men are busily preparing the crew's dinner. They pause to shout something at their captain and he waves at them.

He leads us past the make-shift pig pen. Any other captain I know would have let them run wild and forage for themselves in the forested part of the island, rather than trouble his men with the extra work. Furthermore, this island seems to have avoided the seeding of all manner of livestock done by the early Spaniards – some future castaway would probably be most grateful if a couple of pigs managed to get themselves left behind. Yet Jack has insisted on the pen, and as far as I know has not deigned to explain this eccentricity.

He leads us into the forest, along the crystal clear stream that empties into the cove, the ready source of fresh water being invaluable, even if most of the crew prefer more potent beverages. We walk underneath the canopy of leaves, through a world bathed in green light, occasionally forced to wade through the shallow water when the undergrowth proves impenetrable. The third time Jack nearly slips on the rocks in the stream bed, and I relieve him – despite his protests – of the basket, citing my distinct lack of desire for a wet meal. He puts on his most affronted expression, then grabs the book and leaps away from me, holding the volume triumphantly – and stumbles over a rock, only this time he does not manage to remain on his feet. He looks even more affronted at my laughter at the sight of him sitting in the stream, then he too cannot stop himself from laughing. Oh well, at least the book did not get soaked as well, and he will soon dry in this heat. Somewhere between the trees are birds – I cannot see them, but I can hear them, calling, twittering, singing. A huge dragonfly – brilliantly green and blue, a living gem, easily as large as my hand – hovers in front of me, not an inch from the tip of my nose. Then it is gone.

He leads us past the lake which feeds the stream, itself feed by a picturesque triple waterfall that springs forth from some inaccessible points high up on the cliff. Usually a few members of the crew can be found

here, amusing themselves, swimming and laughing or enjoying each other's company in the relative privacy (not that being deprived of said privacy will make them stop, unless a man was to quite literally stumble over them, and even then only for as long as it takes to thoroughly express their opinion about people not looking where they are damn well going.) It is quiet now, the only movement a startled bird suddenly taking wing, and I expect this to be the setting for Jack's picnic, but as it turns out I am mistaken.

He leads us into the dark green twilight among the trees, where no creek or large animal has carved a convenient path for us, but to our right is the cliff, imposingly tall and very hard to miss. The ground grows steeper and at times one has to cling to branches. Somewhere in the darkness is movement and noise, points of brilliant colour darting away. Once I stumble and look down to see not the expected root, but a scaly, sinuous, sapphire blue snake vanishing into the undergrowth.

He leads us into the light.

I stand blinking, raising a hand to shield against the brilliant light of the sinking sun after the twilight between the trees. Then I put down the basket and take a step forward to better survey my surroundings.

We are as best I can tell well over halfway up the cliff, on what seems to be a naturally formed ledge running along it. Most of it is covered in the forest we have just made our way through, but for some reason no trees have laid claim to the very tip of the ledge (which is small, but not small enough for a man or two to feel in danger of tumbling down). Instead the ground is covered with a layer of soft, green grass. I turn to look at the way we came and find myself face to face with what at first glance seems a solid wall of green dotted with flowers in every colour of the rainbow.

"Well, Commodore James, does it meet with your very fine self's approval?"

"Oh. Yes. Indeed. It is a remarkable place, Jack. But how did you know it was here?"

"Found it the last time around, savvy?" He grins like a very satisfied cat and sets about unpacking the basket.

I step to the very edge of the ledge to properly take in the view. This whole side of the island is laid out before me, a magnificent sight. I can see the sheltered cove with the Pearl in it, the pirates gathering at a tiny spark of a cooking fire. I remember how Jack insisted on sailing all the way around the island after he woke up again after the storm, as if he knew that cove was there to be found. At first I was dismissive of his claims of having found 'his' island, but now? Now I am no longer certain.

I remember sitting in the boat bringing men from the Pearl to the beach on that first day. The crew – being as gullible and superstitious as only sailors can be, no matter which way their moral compass points – had

accepted Jack's claims as gospel truth, but one – young and freckled, one of young Mr. Hawkins friends, unless is misremember – had asked for elaboration. When Jack just leaned back and grinned, Mr. Gibbs spun a tale – about a young, shipwrecked pirate who had ridden a sea turtle to shore, only to find himself on a deserted island seemingly far from any shipping lanes. He was alone except for a pair of wild goats. Then one day an immense bird had appeared, its wings turning day to night, each beat of them stirring up the waves. It swooped – and flew away, carrying a bleating goat in its huge talons. Clever Jack spent the next many days hunting the remaining goat, until finally one day he succeeded. On that very day the day turned to night once more as the bird returned and swooped – and carried away both the goat and the pirate clinging to it…

"Commodore James," the pirate in question interrupts my reverie, making me turn around. "Dinner is served," and he bows, making a sweeping gesture to encompass the blanket he has spread out on the ground and the food spread out upon it, leaving barely enough room for two men to sit if they are friendly. Not that I mind overtly much.

Dinner is delicious, if somewhat unorthodox. My host is all energy, sitting down and leaping to his feet before sitting down again. He picks out bits of food for the both of us – a piece of fruit, a bit of cheese, a hard-boiled egg, a morsel of spicy grilled fish – as the mood strikes him, meanwhile telling fanciful tales involving whatever he is proffering, stories that time and again make me smirk or grin or simply laugh.

Once the greasiest foodstuff has been eaten, Jack wipes his fingers and then proceeds to dig out a bottle from the basket, a bottle which to my surprise turns out to not contain rum, but a dark red wine. He pours a mug of it for each of us (having apparently chosen not to take the chance of bringing actual glasses and accidentally breaking them), then picks up the small leather-bound volume, which has been lying abandoned at the edge of the blanket. A play, I suppose, but no. He leafs through it, glances at me and grins.

"Love is too young to know what conscience is,  
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?  
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,  
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:  
For, thou betraying me, I do betray  
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;  
My soul doth tell my body that he may  
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,  
But rising at thy name doth point out thee,  
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,  
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,  
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.  
No want of conscience hold it that I call  
Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall."

"Honestly Jack, have you no sense of propriety? Is not even the Bard safe from you?" and I pluck the book from his hands, glaring at him, though mostly in jest. Truly, I rather expected him to make his own personal interpretation of the poem perfectly clear and he has fully met my expectations.

Still, I glare at him. It is expected, after all, and it is met with a wide grin.

"Well then, my dear Commodore James, how about ye show me how it is done properly-like, aye?"

"Oh, I will," I reply, as I leaf through the slim volume, looking for a sonnet that will be proper to read. But as I turn the pages, my eyes gliding over one poem declaring the poet's love after another, my own inappropriate feelings stir, and suddenly, the formerly innocuous pieces seem like clever traps. I cannot read these to Jack, I cannot risk that he might somehow hear these lines ring with the truth of my emotions. Oh, but surely there must be a single sonnet among the many that will not betray me, surely – for Jack is still looking at me, expectantly, curiously. To not read, will that not betray me as surely as not…

Enough. This will have to do.

"O, how I faint when I of you do write,  
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,  
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,  
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!  
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,  
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,  
My saucy bark inferior far to his  
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.  
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,  
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;  
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,  
He of tall building and of goodly pride:  
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,  
The worst was this; my love was my decay."

"How very – nautical of you, my dear Commodore."

"As befits a sailor, surely?"

"Oh, aye," he nods, grasping for the book. "My turn."

And so it begins, this little game of ours, with Jack trying his best to scandalize me through gesture and intonation as surely as through his choice of sonnet, while I struggle to read them as they ought to be read.

Again and again Jack pours wine into our mugs. Again and again I forget myself and laugh at his antics instead of frowning and glaring as I ought. And as the evening progresses, it grows easier and easier to pick a fitting sonnet.

At some point I realize that it is getting dark and I root through the basket in search of a lantern, but apparently Jack has neglected to bring one. I look back at the trees and realize that night has long since fallen between them, dark and deep. I should not like to try and walk back in the dark without a light. It would be far too easy to break a leg or worse. I suppose we will have to spend the night up here. Sharing the single blanket Jack has bothered to bring.

I glare at him – again. It is getting to be a habit – as is his answering grin. He calls me back to his side with a gesture and we resume our reading, sitting shoulder to shoulder, holding the book closer and closer as the night falls.

"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
And in some perfumes is there more delight  
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:  
I grant I never saw a goddess go,  
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,  
As any she belied with false compare. "

I lift my head, having been forced to bend down and squint to make out the letters on the page, and freeze at finding myself suddenly face to face with Jack, so close that the tips of our noses are only just not touching. For what seems like an eternity neither of us moves, here in the dark.

Then Jack kisses me.

His lips are sliding over mine, lightly parted, tongue flickering out and in, teasing and oh, it is wrong, it is sinful, but it is Jack, but it is so good, and it has been so long. Surely there can be no harm in it, here in the dark.

I match him, lips to lips, tongues twining, teeth clicking with the clumsiness of a first kiss. He tastes of wine, of course, but beneath it is rum and sun and something else, something I cannot quite define.

Something Jack.

Then the lips leave mine. I open my eyes (when did I close them?) and am about to tug them back, wanting more (and when exactly did my fingers entangle themselves in Jack's hair?), but Jack is moving, settling his weight in my lap, and then the lips are back and it is good. Yes.

Then the lips move again, sliding, sucking, nibbling at my jaw, gliding down, as clever fingers undo buttons, pushing cloth and a dangling gemstone aside.

Again he moves, the pirate in my lap, thrusting, sliding hardness against hardness, and it is all good, so good, and I moan and let my head fall back, baring my throat to those hungry, wicked, delicious lips, wanting more, wanting anything, wanting everything.

"Nice, Jamie-love, very nice."

It feels as if someone had just thrown a bucketful of ice water at me. Everything is cold for just a moment, cold and empty and sharp as broken glass. Then heat rises once more. The heat of anger. How dare he…

I scramble backwards, dislodging him. I try to get to my feet, stumble, try again with more success.

"How dare you! You – you pirate! How dare you!"

"Now, Jamie-love, where might you be…" and he is blinking up at me, sitting on the ground. Even in this meagre light I can see that his lips are swollen from kissing, and I know mine are too. Damn him.

"How dare you! Have you not humiliated me enough? Or did you feel the need to add corruption of a commodore to your long list of sins?"

"Now, Jamie, 'twas but a bit of innocent sport…" and he climbs to his feet, not quite managing not to stumble in the process, unsteadily – due to the drink, no doubt.

"Sport? How dare you, you – you blackguard? You villain!" Is that all this is to you, you bastard? Just a bit of sport? A bit of fun? A game?

"James, James, James, settle down, there's a lad…" and he moves towards me, raising his hands, almost imploringly, but I back away from him, back towards the trees.

"No! I am not going to be your latest plaything! How dare you approach me in this manner, you – you sodomite? Have you no decency in you? No shame? How dare you?" How dare you pretend to give me what I want?

"Now, really, Commodore, 'tis not exactly a one-man dance we were dancing. If you'd just settle down…" but I will not. I cannot. Who knows what might happen if I do, if I succumb to Jack and his oh-so-reasonable words and his fingers reaching out towards my face, as slowly as if I was some wild thing he wanted to tame.

"How dare you?" and I slap them away, and again as they come back, harder. Repeating those words again and again and again, louder and louder and louder. Surely they must be able to hear this racket as far away as down by the Pearl.

"Commodore James bloody Norrington, will ye bloody well settle down!" and he grasps my right hand in his left, a grip like a vice, and with his right hand he slaps me, as if I was some hysterical woman.

It stings.

We stand in silence for a bit, eyes locked. He never relinquishes his grip.

A drop of something slides down my cheek, down next to the corner of my lip. I catch it on the tip of my tongue. It tastes like salt.

I look down on his right hand. One of those gaudy rings has somehow gotten twisted and is facing the palm of his hand. There is a speck of something on it, but I cannot make out the colour.

I close my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath, then another one for good measure. Then I meet his gaze once more.

"Unhand me, Captain Sparrow. Or is it perhaps your custom to rape your captives?"

For yet another long moment he does nothing and I begin to grow worried that… but then he does let got of me, with the abruptness of a man letting go of something suddenly painfully hot or utterly repulsive.

I whirl around and plunge into the forest. I run through the dark between the trees, down the slope. I run recklessly, not caring about the snagging branches or the danger of breaking my neck in the dark. I trip over a root, fall, get back on my feet, still running. I am surrounded by the noises of stirring night life, the splashes as I run through water that I cannot see, only hear and feel – and if I seem to hear someone calling my name from somewhere behind me, then it is nothing but the forest and the night and my mind conspiring to play an evil trick on me.

I run.

The forest runs out.

I find myself standing at a tiny beach, grey and cold in the light of the risen moon. Like a sleepwalker I walk down to the water, removing my shirt and holding it up for inspection. One of the sleeves has miraculously escaped getting soiled during my mad dash through the night time forest, so I dip it in the sea and cautiously dab at the tiny cut on my cheek.

It stings.

That is when it comes crashing down over me like a tidal wave, the realization of what I have just done, what I have refused and what I have said.

Oh Lord. Oh Lord no.

Tiny waves licking at my ankles drive me back ashore. I pick a place on the beach well above the tidal mark, then I slowly lie down.

It is cold and I shiver, even having put my shirt back on.

I feel curiously – empty.

Tomorrow, the sun will rise and warm the sand, and I will wake up – alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's as far as it ever got. And - as I mentioned in the note to the first chapter - I have no idea if this will ever be continued. Sorry.


End file.
